


Secrets

by whenitstarted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Hallucinations, I'm unsure if thats a tag but it should be, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Mental Illness, Murder, No Main Character Death, Plot Twist, Sarcastic Cas, Southern Dean, Violence, Writer Castiel, Writer Dean, aka Dean and Cas don't get killed so you're okay to read it without sad feels, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenitstarted/pseuds/whenitstarted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak - Struggling writer, stuck in his own head most of the time.<br/>Abigail Novak - Cheating ex wife who can't seem to leave for good.<br/>Dean Shooter - Life changer that Castiel did not know he needed.</p><p>"All that matters, is the ending. And this one, it's perfect."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I have this tagged as Destiel and m/m, but there isn't any porn in this story. It's legit just plot and Dean and Cas hate each other until the very last chapter, so if you're expecting fluff/smut, this is the wrong story for you. It's based off a movie that I love and will name and give credit to at the end of the last chapter. There are only three, and they're all written already, so stay tuned!
> 
> (Also, Dean's last name in this is Shooter, but he is a writer so you can just think that's his pseudo name and he can still be Dean Winchester if you like!)
> 
> Enjoy! :*

The snow fell in huge clumps against the windshield, only to be wiped away a moment later from the wiper blades.

_Turn around._

He sat in his car, completely still except for the steady drumming of his fingers against the wheel. The red from Motel sign is dull in his back window, tinting the inside of his car in the color. The M is flashing and about to go out, he assumes.

_Turn. Around._

He puts the car in gear, eyes flashing around, trying desperately to distract himself from what he's doing. He drives away, stopping once he's nearly out of the parking lot.

_Don't go back there._

He gnaws at his lower lip, dry and cracked from the freezing weather. Checking his rear view mirror is no use, he finds, because the back window is painted white from the falling snow.

_Do not go back there. Don't._

His hand reaches for the gearshift and he throws the car in reverse, driving blind backwards into the same parking lot.

_That was stupid. Leave. Just go._

He doesn't even park in a free space, just stops right outside the lobby of the shitty motel. Taking a deep breath, he flings the door open, leaving it swinging wide when he leaves, peaking through the window. No one there.

He's not thinking anymore. Stepping into the empty lobby and behind the untidy counter top which is being used as a front desk, his eyes scan the key hooks. Room twenty two.

Key in hand, he runs back to his car, hearing a man call after him. Obviously he ignores him. He drives forward to the end of the motel rooms, stopping outside the one in the corner. Getting out of his car is easy, unlocking that door without any hesitation at all is easy. When it swings open to the completely darkened room, the open door casting a white light across their faces, now startled awake, along with the bang of the door against the wall...less easy.

And there it is, what he had been thinking for some time now, staring him back in the face in the shape of two people.

His wife. Naked. His naked wife. Along with a man. Also naked.

He screams. Directly at them, the man working now caught up to him and pulling him backwards, away from the two of them sprawled over each other in bed. He goes along with the man; lets himself be dragged by this guy, who is now trying to settle him down.

It's an unsuccessful attempt.

~~~~~

Six Months Later

Castiel got to keep the house once they separated. (He would say divorce, but they haven't signed the official papers for that yet.) Or well, he got the house that they bought first. Abigail got their big, white-picket-fence house to keep. The one Castiel had just bought for them not too long before he found her cheating. They needed a bigger place. But then, things happen and don't pan out how they should have. But, they hadn't sold this place yet, for which he's grateful, because he didn't want to fight over who got the house when he'd gladly take this one anyways.

He does love his house, though. It's out of town by an hour or so, and off the lake. There's woods off the side of his house, but not the dangerous kind of woods with wild animals. Just nice to look at trees and shit.

The top floor of his house is like a deck, or an overhang or sorts. Up the stairs, you've got his bedroom and bathroom but he's also go an office which looks over the entire living room. His office, where he writes. Or use to. He's not doing so well in that department right now. His laptop is flashing up there now, a half written shitty paragraph that he tried to spit out this afternoon, but no dice.

Castiel is napping on his worn couch in the living room, his dog Chico curled up on the chair, napping as well, when the knocking wakes him. His eyes claw themselves open and he groans low, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes, sitting up. The knocking continues so long that he's annoyed, already was because whoever is here is ruining his fucking nap.

He stands and tightens the ripped up robe he's been wearing on the daily for the past six months and plucks his glasses up before padding off on hardwood floors to the annoying nap ruining son of a bitch. He can only see the silhouette of the intruder, a man, stood behind the screen door wearing a large hat. One of the olden days ones, that men would wear in cowboy films. Castiel's got one of those porches that is still inside and a part of his house, so it makes for an easy way to see the man without really seeing his face. Know what he's about to be dealing with. Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he pulls open the screen door.

The man looks pissed. Really pissed. Green eyes are narrowed and shooting daggers at Castiel, which, what the fuck, who does this guy think he is? Coming to his house and waking him to stand and give him the stink eye?

His hair is almost blond, and quite short, from what he can see. The hat is large, black, and looks out of place on his head. He's handsome, a couple inches taller than Castiel himself and with a jawline so sharp it could probably cut glass. Castiel doesn't like him.

"You stole my story," are the first words the man says to Castiel, and they're in some sort of Southern drawl. Castiel just squints at him through his lenses, shaking his head. He did not wake up for this bullshit. "Well?" The man says expectantly.

"I'm sorry- do I-" he cuts himself off, clearing his throat and shaking his head again. "I don't believe I know you."

"I know that, but that doesn't matter because I know you, mister Novak, that's what matters." It's kind of a run-on sentence and his voice irritates Castiel to no end. "You stole my story." He repeats himself, holding up a wad of papers in Castiel's face.

"You're mistaken," he feels like a bobble head, shaking it yet again. "I don't read manuscripts-"

"Well you read this one already. You stole it."

"I can assure you-"

"I know you can, I know that," his voice interrupts yet again and Castiel grits his teeth. "I don't wanna be assured."

Sighing heavily, Castiel begins again. "If you want to talk to somebody, about some, grievance, that you feel you may have," he says slowly, eyes locked with the taller man's. "You can call my literary agent."

"This is between you, and me," he announces. Castiel is getting a rain man vibe from him because the guy's voice is fucking echoing through the room. So loud, in fact, it woke Chico, who is now at Cas' feet, watching the two of them talk. He steps out the door, smelling the man's legs. "We don't need any outsiders, mister Novak, this is strictly between you and me."

"Alright, look, mister whoever you are," he starts, feeling the anger really setting in. "I don't like being accused of plagiarism," he raises an eyebrow, shrugging a shoulder. "If that is in fact what you're accusing me of- Chico, inside." He snaps his fingers behind him and his dog follows, standing behind his legs back in the house.

"I understand not likin' it, but you did it. You stole my story."

"You're gonna have to leave, I'm through with this," Castiel tries to close the door, but the man shoves the rolled up stack of papers towards him, in the way of the door.

"We'll talk more later," he offers the roll to Castiel, who looks incredulously at the man, holding up his hands to show his palms.

"I'm not taking that-"

"It won't do you any good to play games with me, mister Novak," he deadpans, eyes staring so far into Castiel he worries he can read his mind. "This has got to be settled."

"As far as I'm concerned, it is," he says, closing and locking the door in his face. He can see his silhouette still, behind the curtain covering the window in his door. Just how he could before he answered the door to that insane man's conversation. He stands there a while, and then Castiel hears shuffling, footsteps fading away and off his porch. When he sees the shadow is gone, he follows the sound of the man's steps, walking to his dining room to peak out the window there.

Castiel watches this strange man walk with bowlegs to his car, a black Chevy Impala in pristine condition. He slides into the drivers seat and backs away, out of Castiel's dirt yard, where he had been parked, and onto the road leading away from his house.

He opens the door once the sound of the car is free of his ears and sees the same stack of papers on the floor, spread out and with a large rock on top of them to keep them in order. He doesn't even want to, but he peaks around just to be sure the dude isn't going to jump out and murder him or something, and then bends down and moves the rock, picking up the papers.

Sowing Season  
Dean Shooter

The front is just that, the man's -Dean's- name, and the title of his stupid story.

"Never heard of you, pal," he mumbles to himself, turning back into his house with the story in hand. He closes and locks the front door once more, socked feet padding into the kitchen. "Never heard of your story," he adds, lifting the lid to the garbage can and tossing the story inside.

He moves further into his kitchen, checking the fridge for a moment before deciding he doesn't want to eat anything and kicks it shut. The house is quiet, Chico off somewhere, Castiel alone. Always alone.

Castiel washes his hands in the kitchen sink, because he touched that guy's story and the conversation itself made him feel dirty. He knows he didn't steal any damn story. He air-drys his hands as he walks back into the living room, flinging them around and spraying water droplets over his furniture. Not like he cares about anything in this house, not really. Not anymore, at least.

He sets his glasses back on the coffee table, laying down gently on his couch and turning so he's facing the back of it, completely surrounded by darkness.

Chico lies down in his dog bed across from him, because it's always nap time in this house.

Castiel sighs, curling his legs up and snuggling further into his couch, mumbling to himself, "now, where was I."

~~~~~

Castiel wishes he could blame the shitty writing he's doing on the sound of the vacuum downstairs just distracting him from work. Peaking over the edge, his cleaning lady vacuums the same spot over and over for at least thirty seconds.

He taps his fingers against the desk, anxiously waiting for her to get finished and out of his house. He values his alone time. "I'm open to suggestions," he tells Chico, who is laying on the green recliner in the corner of the office. The dog lifts his head towards his owner, and Castiel sighs,rubbing his hand over his scruffy jaw. He leans over the railing once more, seeing her in the same spot only maybe an inch or so to the side and he groans. "If you go ahead and bite her, I'll kill her," he tries again, but Chico just stands up in the chair and walks in a circle, laying down the opposite way.

_Four days after George had confirmed to his own satisfaction that his wife was cheating on him, he confronted her. "I have to talk to you, Anna," he said. "I-_

"This is just, bad writing. Awful, bad writing," he grumbles to himself, reading over the only paragraph he had typed out today. He distracts himself by playing with a slinky rather than do anything to fix the horrible work he has created, because he knows if he tried it would do no use. He hasn't written anything worth reading in six months. Maybe longer, who knows.

_Just bad fucking writing._

His eyes scan the laptop screen as if it will fix itself and the words will rearrange into something that doesn't suck.

_You know what to do, so just do it._

Slamming the slinky down, he highlights the passage and presses the delete button. He smiles at the white screen with only a flashing cursor.

_No bad writing._

Turning to Chico, he grins at the pup, "I think that solves it."

When the vacuum quiets a moment later, he checks over the edge again to see his living room empty. Which means it is safe to head down there and stop pretending he had been doing anything of import today. So Castiel heads down the wooden stairs, chewing on a handful of Chex Mix, as he walks into the kitchen. He takes a Mountain Dew from the fridge and wonders how he doesn't weigh as much as his house yet.

Turning, to go back to the living room, he spots a neat stack of paper on his dining room table.

Sowing Season  
Dean Shooter

He eyes it curiously, setting his soda on the table next to the story as his maid emerges from where she had been putting his vacuum away.

"Oh, I found one of your stories in the trash, mister Novak," she tells him as she passes by, pointing to the papers. "I thought you might want it, so I put it on the table."

"Yeah, I see that Mrs. Darby," he replies shortly, holding up his fingers in the shape of a gun to her once she turns her back to him. He sits down in front of the papers, lifting the crinkled, dirty thing closer to his face and pushing his glasses up his nose. He flips through the first one, reading the neat print of the second page.

_Todd Downy thought that any woman who could steal your love, when it was really all you had, was not much of a woman. He therefore decided to kill her. He would bury her in the deep corner where the house and the barn came together at an extreme angle._

He raises his eyebrows at the writing, backing up from the page as he reads on.

_He would bury her where his wife kept her garden. The garden she loved more than she loved him._

"Shit," he whispers, throwing the story down and tipping over his soda. "Oh- shit!" Castiel groans, louder this time as the can falls to the floor, causing the liquid to spray over the table and the hardwood floor.

Mrs. Darby comes rushing back in immediately. "Oh thank God, from the sound of you I didn't know what to think. Here, let me get this, it's my job," she lifts the stack of papers, now sticky and wet with soda, pressing them to Castiel's chest so he will take them.

"I'm terribly sorry Mrs. Darby," he says in a monotone voice, biting his lip because he's now holding wet disgusting papers against his person because of this old woman. "I really am."

"I'll take care of this, mister Novak, you just go on back to work-"

"I didn't write this," Castiel interrupts her while she wipes up the mess on the table.

"Oh, I thought you did."

"No, nope, it's not mine. Look," he points to the cover page, at the name there. "Dean Shooter, right there. Dean Shooter," he repeats, forcing a smile. "Not me."

"Oh, I thought it was one of those um," she makes a face, shaking her head. "What do you call it, pseudo names?"

"No, no," he shakes his own head incredulously at her, trying not to let his blood pressure rise enough to shout at her. "I never use one. I've _never_  used one."

"Well, I can't imagine why you would. I mean, hidin' behind some made up name," she drops to the floor to scrub it clean, mid conversation, leaving Castiel to roll his eyes and bite his tongue. He shakes the anger away, dropping down to her level on the ground.

"No, Mrs. Darby, what I'm trying to tell you is that someone else wrote this story."

"Oh, okie-dokie then," she smiles, mindlessly going back to cleaning up the spilled soda.

He leaves her to it, going back up stairs to his book shelf. Scanning the rows of books, he grabs the one he was looking for, bringing it back to the chair in front of his laptop, still blank-screened. He quickly searches over the table of contents, finding the name of his short story on page eighty two.

Secret Garden

_A woman who would steal your love when your love was all you had wasn't much of a women. That at least, was Tommy Haverlock's opinion. He decided to kill her. He even knew the place he would bury her; the exact place. A little patch of garden she kept in the extreme angle formed where the new parts of the house came together. He'd bury her in the garden she loved more than she loved him._

He stops reading, looking over to the window to the right of him, next to the chair where Chico slept when he was writing. Castiel remembers when they bought this house, he and Abigail. They were setting up furniture up here, and she had moved an old dresser that came already in the house. She looked beautiful, he remembered. Her hair shining blonde in a messy ponytail, pulled back to keep it off of her face, clean of any makeup, because it was just them that day, and Castiel told her she was pretty enough that she could do anything with her face and still be beautiful to him.

She was wearing Castiel's robe, the one he wears everyday now. In the memory, it's in much better shape, no holes and not as faded, the colorful vertical stripes making her eyes look an even more gorgeous shade of blue. He was so smitten then. She had pushed the old wooden pile of junk out of the way, into the corner where the roof made the ceiling come together diagonally; slanted.

"Look at this," she beamed back at Castiel over her shoulder, her bare feet padding over to the window the dresser had been hiding. It looked -and still looks- out to a patch of grass underneath. She tucks a stand of loose hair behind her ear and wiggles her eyebrows, pointing out the window. "This is so perfect. I can put my garden right here -you can see me down there while you're up here working." She beamed then, smiling so wide Castiel couldn't help but smile back at her. "A secret window, and it'll look down onto a secret garden."

The memory fades as Castiel looks back down to the book, with his printed story in it. He sets the other story next to it, comparing the two, because they were undoubtedly similar. His eyebrows furrow as he reads them side by side, angry. He scoots back quickly, hands searching through a drawer in his desk, tipping over a mini bag of Doritos and spilling crumbs around that he'll never get a chance to clean out. Well, he knows he'll have the chance, but that doesn't mean he'll do it.

Castiel moves around files and folders, tipping them open and trying to get them out of the way, until his finger tips grasp the edge of what he was looking for. He sighs, relieved, and pulls the pack of cigarettes out, revealing only one left. He removes it from the pack, tossing the empty wrapping back in the drawer, peaking down the stairs and over the rail, no maid in sight. Smiling, a little guilty, towards Chico -like the dog knows he quit and shouldn't be doing this- he pops it in his mouth and lights it, inhaling the poisonous smoke deep, holding it there. It's been a while, and he didn't know he missed it, but fuck does he know now.

"I didn't steal it," he tells the dog, smoke puffing out of his lips. "What?" He asks at the look the dog gives him, cocked head and like he's actually listening.

"Mister Novak!" Mrs. Darby calls from the bottom of the stairs, and he hears her footsteps. He takes another puff and hides the cigarette under the desk, raising an eyebrow when she reaches the top step, smiling at him. "I'm all done," she announces, too cheery.

"Really, so soon," he fakes a smile, not even showing teeth. He nods when she doesn't leave, "I'll see you next time," he tries to make her take a hint, smoke from the last inhale billowing out from his lips when he speaks.

"Mister Novak, there's something I want to say."

"Oh no," he groans, and knows she didn't hear when she speaks anyways.

"Some women don't know a good thing when they got it," she says, and Castiel nods, wishing she'd get out already. "Some women don't know they got the whole world, and it's right in front of their nose. There," she finishes, and he nods his thanks once more. "That's it." She turns to leave, but stops again, looking back at Castiel from a step lower. "Not another word from me."

She does leave then, but Castiel doesn't watch to make sure she goes, just brings the cigarette back to his lips and nearly has a heart attack as he breaths in another lungful and hears, "mister Novak?"

"Hm?" He hums, ducking lower to blow the smoke towards the floor, hiding the cigarette yet again.

"Can I make you something to eat?"

"No, I ate," he says, patience being tested with this one. "Well, earlier. I'm gonna eat later. And I'll make it myself."

"You're a good man, mister Novak," Mrs. Darby praises with a smile, descending back down the stairs.

"You too, Mrs. Darby," Castiel replies easily, watching the entire time she exits his house just to be sure. He smokes the rest of his cigarette in peace and quiet.

He grumbles the entire way down the stairs a minute later, waving his hands about to clear the clouds of smoke following him and sticking to his clothing.

"It's my personal business Mrs. Darby, thank you very much, my personal business- ugh," he groans at his couch, picking up throw pillows he never uses because they're just for decoration and not comfortable to sleep on. "My pillows- stupid cleaning lady, invasion of my privacy," he's still going, tossing the pillows to the floor before laying one down flat, just how he likes it. He flops down on his side, sighing at the annoyance that is company.

"I didn't steal that story," he whispers to himself. Castiel rolls on his back, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. "I don't think." It isn't even noon, and he finds himself on the verge of sleep already, daydreaming about his visit from Dean Shooter, banging on his door, unable to see the man's features at all, just the silhouette of the tall man with bowed legs, the light around him for some reason only his subconscious knows, is dark blue and it scares the shit out of him.

He startles awake because of his ringing house phone, loud and shrill, cutting through what probably would have tuned into a nightmare.

Castiel hobbles over to the awful noise, picking up the green phone and dragging it back to his couch, where he lays back down on his side, clearing his throat. "Hello?"

"Hello, Castiel," Abigail says gently on the other line. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright, why wouldn't I be alright?" He asks gruffly, voice mumbled even to his own ears.

"You're up there all alone," she explains calmly. "Anything could happen and nobody would know."

"I'm fine."

"Right," she replies and there's an awkward pause before she picks up again. "How's my little puppy, Chico doing-"

"Why did you call, Abigail?" He cuts her off, because the sound of her voice is less pleasant than that of somebody being murdered. Or at least it is to Castiel. He rolls on his back again, asking, "what do you want?"

"I had one of those feelings I get," she tells him and he rolls his eyes. She sounds so happy. "I know you think they're stupid and you don't believe them, but I believe them and I was just making a san-"

Castiel pulls the phone away from his ear, grasping it with both his hands in the middle, shaking it above his head a gritting his teeth. He brings the phone back to his ear, rolling inwards towards the back of his couch.

"-had this sensation that you weren't okay. I held off as long as I could but then I couldn't anymore, so, here I am."

He pulls at his own hair, biting his bottom lip. "Well I don't know what to tell you, because I'm fine."

"Nothing weird happened or anything?"

He pauses and debates if he should tell her about his visit from the strange man earlier. Deciding he doesn't have anything to lose, he fesses up. "You remember Secret Garden? My story? The- uh, the woman has a garden and the guy has the - uh shovel?"

"Not one of my favorites," she replies easily.

"That's good to know," Castiel snaps, rolling his eyes.

"It was kind of hostile, don't you think?"

"Gee, I miss your constructive criticism. I really do."

"What about the story, Cas?"

"I was just wondering," he starts, walking into the kitchen and having the phone cord stretch to follow him. "Do you think it's possible that I might have been influenced by anybody or anything?" he asks, returning to the living room with a soda.

"Other than Jack Daniels?"

"I know that, Abby, answer the question," he sighs, annoyed once again.

"I dunno. You got kinda weird on that one, wrote it mostly at night I think," she says, question in her voice. "What do you mean influenced?"

"I don't know."

"Like, by another story?"

"Look," he shakes his head, opening his soda and setting it on the coffee table. "Forget about it."

"Cas," she says and her voice sounds different now, accusing. "You swore the one time was the only time-"

"Forget it, please- please, just forget about it," he stutters out, uncomfortable. So he changes the subject with a fake smile asking, "how's Ted?"

"He's fine," Abigail sighs.

"I was thinking," Castiel starts, and he's obviously lying. Knows she knows it, too. "He and I should get together some time, have a drink. We like to go to the same places, you know."

"You know what, I gotta go," she snaps, voice louder, offended. Which is what he wanted from her.

"So do I."

"Okay."

"Is he there?" Castiel asks, eyeing the soda on the table.

"No," she replies, clearly annoyed. "We're not together."

His eyebrows raise in actual surprise at that. "Wow. I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't on the verge of doing Snoopy dances," he laughs, rubbing his hand against his stubbly jaw.

"No, Cas," she says softly, as if she actually cares. "I mean we aren't together at the moment. He's coming over later. He hardly ever comes here, I usually go to his house."

"There's a useful detail," he replies, monotone. "Thanks for that."

"Don't ask then. It was going just fine until you did."

"You know, I think you should have Ted over to your place more often," he tells her. "It's such a lovely house. So beautiful. Which is why I bought it."

"Goodbye, Cas," she sighs, ending the call herself.

"Goodbye," Castiel sighs into the dead line, dropping the phone in it's cradle.

He sits up on the couch, cradling his head in his hands and pushing his messy hair out of his face. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he grumbles to himself, pulling at the dark strands. "Shit."

~~~~~

The next time Castiel sees Dean Shooter, he's out for a walk in the woods by his house. He sees the car first, the classic black Impala. He knows nothing about cars, but he does know a nice one when he sees it, and that Impala is a beauty.

It's foggy out, like it normally is. He crosses a tiny bridge that covers a stream and looks up to see the handsome man leaning against the trunk of his car, stupid big hat still atop his head.

"You read it?" Dean calls in that Southern drawl, loud enough for his voice to carry to Castiel.

"I did."

"I imagine it rang a bell, didn't it?"

"Oh, it certainly did," Castiel snarks back at him, using a large piece of wood he found as a walking stick, continuing forward; closer to Dean Shooter. "When did you write it?"

"I thought you'd ask that."

"Well sure, that's the whole point. Two writers show up with the same story, it's all about who wrote the words first. Would you say that's true?" He's up close now, Dean's legs spread and dangling in an awkward way that he didn't notice from so far away. He raises an eyebrow at the other man, waiting.

"I suppose I would. I suppose that's why I came all the way up here from Mississippi," Dean tells him, and he places the accent with the face, keeps it in his memory. A car drives by along the road, above them, and honks. Castiel recognizes the car, the man driving is called Tom. He waves and Dean tips his hat in the car's general direction.

"I wrote it seven years ago. In 1997." Castiel smiles at the admission, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "How'd you get it? That's what I really wanna know. How in the hell, did a big money, script-scribblin' ass like you get down to a town in Mississippi to steal my Goddamn story?"

"Drop it," he snorts, walking by the man.

"Drop it? What in the hell do you mean, drop it?"

Castiel cracks his jaw and turns back around to face Dean. "You said you wrote your story in 1997, I wrote mine in late '94. It was published for the first time in June, 1995 in a magazine. Nice try, mister Shooter, but I beat you by two years." He's in the man's face now, rising up to be on his level, angry. "So if anyone's gonna bitch about plagiarism, it's me," and he turns back around to leave, but Dean grabs him by his right upper arm, spinning him back around.

"You lie!" He shouts, shoving him into the side of his car, hands pressing into both of Castiel's arms now, hard.

Castiel shoves himself free and pushes him away by the shoulder, eyes wide. "No I don't!"

"Prove it," Dean Shooter spits back, eyes full of venom enough for Castiel to believe that this man really fucking thinks he took his story.

"I don't have to prove a thing to you. Go look for yourself, Mystery Magazine, June, 1995."

"And how am I suppose to find that?"

"That's not my problem, is it?"

"Am I suppose to drive down to your house in Riverdale, New York and ask your wife Abigail for it?"

That...really throws Castiel off. The bewildered look on his face makes the man in front of him grin like a maniac.

"That's not my house. That's hers."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"What do you think it means, you ignorant hick?" Castiel snaps, voice raising yet again. "I'm in the middle of a divorce. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Divorce." He adds a twang to his voice, imitating that shitty song so hopefully the guy will get it.

"You strike me as the kinda guy who is on the look out for a head he can knock off with a shovel. But what you don't understand is that when we do start to fight, it's not gonna end," he's rounding on Castiel now, trying to make him sweat. "Til one of us is dead."

He turns to his car, reaching for something in through the window, and Castiel raises the large stick he's been holding, and Dean laughs. "Hold your water, I'm just gettin' my smokes." He offers the pack, only one left, to Castiel, who makes a face.

"I don't smoke."

"I'll give you three days. You call your ex and get her to send you the magazine with your story in it. If there is such a thing. And then I'll be back," he says, lighting a cigarette and raising it to his lips.

"If I show it to you, will you go back to wherever you came from and leave me alone?"

Dean blows a smoke ring, nodding at Castiel. "Three days," he says, rounding the car to the drivers side.

"Yup," Castiel sighs, calling loudly to the man now in his car, "always a pleasure to meat a reader."

~~~~~

He eats a peanut butter sandwich and Doritos for lunch later, Chico watching him, completely transfixed. He's hardly eaten anything, but he does drop a chip every now and then for his dog. Just for his efforts in begging and being cute and putting up with someone who hasn't taken them on a walk in much too long.

Castiel frowns at the dog, picking up half of his sandwich and bringing it to his mouth, but not taking a bite. "I don't wanna call her," he tells Chico, sadly. The man crawls down on the floor, laying with his head next to the pup's front paws. "I wanna go to sleep. I wanna take a nap," he tells him, laying on his back and letting Chico eat the sandwich in his hand, though he knows he probably shouldn't let him.

Chico licks his hand and he smiles stupidly at him, watching the dog deal with the peanut butter in his mouth is much too amusing. "Okay, no nap. I give her a call about the magazine. I go write some crap for a couple hours. And then I get to take a nap. Right?"

The dog isn't paying him any attention now, eyes on his doggy-door now that the food is gone. "Chico-" the dog takes off towards the door, and Castiel rolls onto his stomach, calling after him. "Chico! Don't be discouraged! Alright-" he groans, moving to stand on his own two feet. "Go ahead and be discouraged, you blind bastard, see if I care."

He moves to the living room, unplugging his phone hook up on his way to the couch. He falls back against the sofa after taking off his glasses, mumbling to himself about being a sloth.

He takes a nap anyways.

Waking up from one of those falling off something high and scaring the shit out of yourself dreams is always fun. Especially when you jump so much that you fall, face first onto the floor. Castiel bolts upright, nearly hitting his head on the coffee table. For whatever reason, he doesn't whack himself in the head, which is honestly a shock with how things have been going for him lately.

Not sure what time it is, only that it's now dark outside, he rubs his tired eyes before slipping his glasses back on, padding off to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He takes a sip, turning to lean against the counter and stops, seeing his window completely opened and with a piece of paper attached to the windowsill from the outside, swaying with the breeze.

He squints at the offending object and sets his glass on the table, moving towards his backdoor. He tries turning on the porch light, but it doesn't click on, so he has to go rifle through his junk drawer for a flashlight. Flicking that on, he points it towards where the bulb should be, and finds the glass shattered on his back patio. Great.

Shining the light around to make sure there isn't somebody in his yard, he moves to the note pinned to his window. The sloppy handwriting reads;

_You have 3 days. I am not joking. No police._

No police is underlined twice.

Under the window, he had a wooden bench, and there's a tarp over it, lumpy and dirty, and it wasn't there earlier today. He looks around again, nervously reaching a hand out to grab a fistful of the fabric, pulling it off in one quick tug.

He stumbles back immediately, falling flat on his ass at the sight. Turning his head away, he feels tears burning his eyes and he's vomiting all over the grass next to him, throwing up everything he'd eaten that day. His eyes, now wet, slide back to the horrific view. His dog, laying on his side, unmoving, and with a screwdriver through his neck, pinned to the bench.

Castiel stands, flicking the light around his yard, avoiding the bloody mess that is his dog. "Dean!" He yells, voice cracking at the loud volume he's using, because he'd been asleep and just puked and he's fucking crying. "Shooter! I'll get you for this! You hear me!? I will get you for this!"

He's sobbing as he goes back into his house, locking every door, every window, closing every curtain, all the blinds. Everything. He paces around his house for a few minutes, unsure what to do at all right now.

He buries Chico closest to the water behind the house, because the dog loved swimming. He puts a rock in the middle of the freshly dug up dirt, picking a couple flowers and setting those on the grave as well.

Castiel cries through the entire ordeal.

~~~~~

"Chico?" The town sheriff, Dave Newsome, asks Castiel the next day, shocked and saddened by the news. "He killed Chico?"

"Yeah. Last night around nine, I was asleep," Cas grumbles, scratching the back of his head and holding out the note that had been taped to his window the previous night. "Look at this."

Dave shakes his head sadly, motioning for Castiel to follow him into the police station from the parking lot as he reads. "No police. Anytime somebody sits down and writes out no police, that's just about exactly the time a fella should get himself over _to_  the police."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah that's what I figured. So what I've got is a detailed description of him, I've got a detailed description of his car. I didn't get license plate number but I think that it started with a K. That's what I'm seein' in my mind, but I don't know-"

"Needlepoint, can you believe it?" Dave grunts, interrupting Castiel and sitting down behind his desk and holding up something that was obviously hand-stitched. "Doctor says it's good for the arthritis."

Castiel eyes it, and then Dave, nodding and taking a seat across from him. "Anyways, anything you can find out about this guy, I'd really appreciate it." Castiel quickly adds, upon seeing the sheriff begin sewing right in front of him, like he hadn't just told the guy his dog was stabbed in the neck with a fucking screwdriver, "I'd like to know what I'm dealing with here. Maybe he's got a violent history, or you could maybe find him and talk to him, that'd probably be better."

The cute receptionist woman barks out a laugh and covers the speaking end of the phone she's chatting into, whispering out a sorry to the two of them. This is why Castiel doesn't go out. People. Rude, annoying people.

"You know, Cas, come to think of it, I'm not even sure it's a crime, what he did."

"Well it's gotta be," he argues, annoyed. "What about animal cruelty? What about destruction of private property? What about-"

"Yeah, yeah, maybe," he mumbles along, cutting Castiel off. "Okay, first thing I'm gonna need, is a description." He smiles, taking hold of a pen on the desk and Castiel just sighs and stares. He gives him the description for the second time anyways.

~~~~~

"Tell me the truth; did you steal it?"

"What?" He gapes, groaning. "No."

"Kind of an amazing coincidence, don't you think?" Uriel tells him, sat back in his business suit in his fancy office. "The stories being so much alike."

"Well, obviously the guy copied it from me," Castiel stares at what could be called one of his only friends and raises and eyebrow. "Would you like to chose a side before we continue?" They aren't close, but Castiel has asked him for help with these situations before and he's always been in Cas' corner.

"I'm on your side, but I still need to know the truth. Which kind of situation is this; is he a regular whacko like you've had before, in which case I can help, or is this something you should be talking to your lawyer about?"

Cas sighs and paces in front of his kind of friend. "This guy is simply out of his mind, that's all it is."

"Fine, okay, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to help me in the same way-" Castiel pauses as Uriel's assistant enters the room to bring them both a coffee, smiling politely and ignoring the way she bats her eyes at him. He waits for her to leave before continuing, "in the same way you did before."

"He wasn't this crazy," Uriel shrugs, waving his hands in the air, "that guy was just some obsessed reader who couldn't tell real life from the crap you make up for a living. No offence." Castiel forces a smile. "Now this, Shooter guy, did he threaten your life?"

"He put a screwdriver through my dog," he says calmly, incredulously.

"Well he did break a law, but it doesn't seem to be a very important law. The sheriff must be a cat person."

"Yeah, well I don't exactly feel safe with a sixty year old arthritic sheriff watching my back," Castiel tells him, sitting forward in the leather chair he was now sat in. "You gonna help me or not?"

Uriel is looking at a large binder in front of him on the desk and he hums as his eyes skim the pages in front of him. "I've got a corporate loyalty thing I've gotta be back for on Friday, but, I can give you a couple of days."

"Okay," Castiel agrees, eyes moving to his lap and then the floor. "My story came out a couple years before he said he wrote his. I've got a copy of the original up at Abby's house. I've just gotta stop by on my way upstate and pick it up."

"Abby's house?" Uriel asks, leaning back in his chair, sipping at his coffee.

"Yeah," he sighs, avoiding the man's eyes. "Abby and I split up about six months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," Castiel shrugs. He's about to open his mouth to announce his leave, but Uriel of course has to ruin it by asking about it.

"What happened? You finally nail one of your groupies at a book signing?" He laughs and Castiel cracks his jaw, taking a deep breath. "That was a dick thing to say, I apologize," he quickly adds on and Castiel nods. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, if it's proof, this guy Shooter wants, fine. I show him the magazine but I think that maybe you should be there when I show it to him."

"No shit I'm gonna be there," he nods. "You remember my rate?"

"Yeah -an obscene fortune, right?"

"You'll see a black Cadillac in the driveway tonight when you get home," Uriel begins, ignoring the dig at his price. "Don't freak out, it's just gonna be me keepin' an eye on things."

"Okay," Castiel stands, beyond ready to stop with all the social interaction he's had to put up with today. As he leaves Uriel tells him to get some rest tonight.

Yeah right.

~~~~~

Castiel drives all the way to his old house afterwards, because he needs to get the magazine. He hasn't called Abigail (he hasn't plugged the phone back into the wall yet, either) and they haven't spoken since their last conversation at all, which would be just fucking dandy if he didn't need something from her.

It's getting close to dark by the time he's there, and he sees her, her blonde hair pulled back into a neat style that she use to wear when they went out, the stands not pulled back are curled and shiny. He's there too, of course. In a stupid suit and tie, swinging their conjoined hands as she walks him to the passenger's side of the car. He pushes her against the side and kisses her, presses his hands to her skinny hips, fingers covering the pretty black of her dress. Castiel hates him so passionately.

_This is not my beautiful house._

He watches them break apart, climbing into their retrospective seats with happy smiles on their faces.

_This is not my beautiful wife._

They drive off and Castiel sits in his car, upset and with a headache. He pushes his head to the steering wheel and shouts. Not even words, just loud and angry noises.

_Not anymore._

He leaves without the magazine so he can get home before it's too dark.

~~~~~

It's dark anyways, when he pulls up his house. And just like Uriel told him, he sees his black Cadillac parked in the front. Castiel eyes the car, Uriel behind the wheel is leaned against the side window, slouched down. Quite worrisome.

He turns the lights off and quickly steps out of his car, approaching the black one in front of him. He can't see much, it's dark, the car is black and so is Uriel, and his windows are slightly tinted. The only thing he can make out is the back of the man's bald head leaning against the door, not moving.

Tentatively, he taps the tips of his fingers against the window, and his friend jumps, startling him like no other. Castiel yanks his hand back and spins around in place, cursing loudly. It's embarrassing how jumpy he is, really. They're both laughing when Uriel gets out of the car and Cas runs his hands from the top of his head all the way down his face, groaning.

"You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry about that, this busy week must have just caught up with me," Uriel laughs, patting Castiel on his shoulder.

"That's very reassuring," he replies sarcastically, fixing his glasses back into place.

"Relax, I was only out ten minutes, I swear. Already checked the place," Uriel tells him with a point to Cas' house, still smiling. "Everything is fine, I was just waitin' on you to get back to let you know."

Castiel sighs, fighting a blush as he clears his throat, asking, "you think you'll be stickin' around here tonight?"

"No," Uriel makes a face at the question and Castiel hides a grimace. He doesn't feel safe alone, not after what this Dean motherfucker did to his dog. "Not unless you want me to."

He leaves the offer floating in the air, and Castiel brings his eyes to the ground. "No," he finally responds, eyeing his dark house. "No. No, I'm sure it's fine. In there. It's fine in there."

~~~~~

"Nope," Uriel calls from the top of his stairs, emerging from Castiel's bedroom. "Still no monsters up here."

"Did you check under my bed?" Castiel shouts back, wandering the lower level of his house holding a blue rowing ore up as protection.

"And in your toy chest," he responds, walking downwards to meet Castiel at the bottom of the stairs. "I'll be back in the morning. Start askin' around town," he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, taking the ore from Cas and walking it back to it's spot of leaning against a wall in the messy living room. "What the hell are you gonna do with that? Find out who else saw your nutjob-"

"Tom Parker."

"Hm?"

"Tom Parker. He passed by when I was talkin' to Shooter out on Lake Drive, he must have gotten a glimpse. Even waved at us."

"Tom Parker. How do I get a hold of him?"

"He goes to breakfast every morning at that place on Bowing street."

"Alright. Don't worry," Uriel tells him, eyeing his house one last time before approaching the much shorter man. "I'm gonna find out where this Dean Shooter is staying. Stop in for a little freak-me-out check, use the word _we_  a lot. We know what you're doing, we want it to stop, we're watching you."

"Yeah," Cas nods, happy to have someone who can actually help in his life.

"He's gonna hit the road so hard it'll hit back," he promises, ruffling Castiel's hair as he turns to the front of the house and pulls on his jacket.

Cas catches him as he's about to head onto the porch, calling out to him. "Are you staying in town tonight?"

"Yeah, some motel out by route nine. Eve's Lake-Something, I dunno. You know the place?"

Images of Castiel backing back into the parking lot with the cheap flashing M on the sign flick through like a picture book in his brain, all the way until the part where he finds his wife in bed with Ted. Fucking asshole, Ted.

"Yes- yeah, I know the place."

"Night, Cas," he nods, and Castiel waves.

He watches the chubby man walk out to his car in the driveway, peaking through the window as to not seem obvious. He just stands there, twiddling his hands and fingers, unsure what to really do. Up the stairs, Castiel hears something move, and normally that would mean nothing. Just Chico. But now, the noise has him spinning around so fast he nearly looses his balance. His eyes dart up the steps and to the overhang, but it's clear. Just full of his regular crap that's always there.

"Hello?" He calls, voice strong and steady, especially given how scared he is at the moment. "Shit," he curses as Uriel's car backs out and heads off his property, down the road. Alone again. Looking around his house, he tries to find something to defend himself and settles with one of the fireplace-pokers. He feels as if he's being watched as he makes his way up the stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and his hands shaking in a way he hopes that if he is being watched, isn't noticeable.

Every step creaks on the old, hard wood steps. His eyes scan over the office area and his heart twists in a knot at the sight of the green chair Chico would lay on while he pretended to get writing done. Castiel shakes that feeling quickly though and turns to the closed door that leads to his bedroom and un suit bathroom. Not that he would call it that, though, more than likely just refer to it as his bathroom. This house isn't modern enough for an "un suit".

He catches one of the prongs of the fire stick on the wood paneled door and it opens with another creak into darkness. Flicking the light on, he steps into his bedroom slowly. Bed is still unmade, clothes on the floor. Untidy as hell, because the maid doesn't clean in here. He uses the poker in the same way to open his closet, but is met with nothing but clothes that he hasn't touched in who knows how long, turning with a start at another sound; a creak in the floorboards. The bathroom door is opened completely, but it's dark so he can only make out shadows as he peers around his messy bed, trying to step on the quiet parts of the ground.

And then he sees it. The silhouette of a man's shoulder in the bathroom mirror. Large hat, wide, broad shouldered man. He gulps, raising the fire stick above his head. "I know you're in there, shithead," he calls in the general direction of the open door. The shadow doesn't move. "If you don't come out by the time I- I count to five," he pauses, catching his nervous breath and trying to keep as much venom in his voice as he can. "I'm comin' in swinging."

He wipes his sweaty palm against his thigh and grips the poker tight in both hands. "One," he yells, taking a step back. "Two," and then he's running into the bathroom, swinging as hard as he can at the mirror, at what he thought was in front of the mirror, but all that happens is the sound of glass shattering as he breaks the mirror above his sink.

Alone, still.

Castiel is angry, looking at the broken mess of glass in front of him, probably going down the drain of his sink to fuck up the pipes, because that would be his luck. "I killed a mirror," he says to himself, and then he hears the same sound again, to his left and doesn't even think before swinging at the shower. Through the broken glass of his now ruined shower screen, he sees a tiny brown mouse, scurrying around his bathtub. "And my shower door," he groans.

He drops the poker and slides the screen open, grabbing a hand towel and kneeling to the little scared mouse. Safe in his hands, wrapped up in the towel, Castiel stands up to go let him loose, the mirror falling completely off the wall as he goes.

Perfect.

As he passes his office, his eyes glance to the desk and stay there for a minute or so, debating, before he continues on his way. And then he decides, fuck it, goes back, grabs his pack of cigarettes and heads back down the stairs. There's only one left, and he angrily reminds himself to get another pack.

"I don't care," he says, putting the last one between his lips and throwing the pack back on his desk. "I'm just gonna smoke. I'm just gonna totally smoke. I'm gonna smoke this, and then I'm gonna get a brand new pack and smoke the shit out of that too."

He lets the mouse out by Chico's grave, sighing sadly at the shovel still in the freshly dug up dirt. He inhales a deep breath, shaking his head as he breaths back out. He lights a match and brings it to the end of his cigarette and-

"Thought you didn't smoke?"

Castiel clenches his jaw, tossing the burnt match away and sighs. "I took it up recently for my health."

"How are you, mister Novak?" Dean Shooter asks, ever so casually.

"Oh, I'm just peachy, mister Shooter, how're you?" He inhales deeply and holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment before he lets it out, turning to face the taller man.

"Well it sounds like you pitched a fit or somethin' in there," he says, eyes flashing to meet Castiel's in the dark. "I don't think you're all that well," he smiles. "Stealing from another man, that don't seem to bother you none. Maybe it's just that successful writers like you throw tantrums when things don't go the way they expect. Why didn't you get that magazine, you were down there at her house today, weren't you?"

"If I get my story, and I show it to you, will you then kindly disappear?"

"There isn't any, 'magazine' with that story in it, mister Novak," Dean tells him in a low voice, now circling Castiel in a way meant to intimidate him. And fuck did it. "You and me, we know that."

"Okay then," Castiel says softly, annoyed and prickling with nerves at this man being at his house. At this man, following him while he drove to his wife's house. "What can we do to make you feel better?" He backs up just slightly, into the stood up shovel and he tries to be subtle when he wraps a hand behind him to grab onto it. Dean moves closer though, as if he saw, and his hand slides off the wood slowly.

"I want you to fix it."

"What would you like me to fix?"

"My ending," he says evenly, flat and bored, even. "The one you wrecked." Dean's hand raises to the tip of the shovel, his palm covering it. "I can't decide what's worse; stealing my story or ruining the ending.

"Mine was perfect," he goes on, smiling almost fondly at Castiel, though he know it isn't because of him, but because this man has his head so far up his own ass Cas wonders how he functions.

"I don't think I even read your whole story-"

"Oh I think you did. I know I can do it," Dean says, raising his other hand to cover the one on the shovel. "Todd Downy said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. I'm sure that in time, her death will be a mystery, even to me. That's how the story ends, pilgrim, that's the only ending, and you're gonna write it for me and get it published, and it's gonna have my name on it."

"I'd be more than happy to write your ending, mister Shooter."

He smiles at Castiel and drops the shovel, stepping around him with a far off look in his eyes. "I saw that wife of yours comin' outta that house. She's pretty."

"Why don't we just leave my wife out of this."

He watches Dean turn back towards him who frowns a little at him, eyebrows scrunched up. "I would if I could. I'm startin' to think you won't leave me that option."

Castiel sighs then, quickly wrapping his hands around the shovel, hauling it up and taking a swipe at his head, only for Dean to grab onto it as well, use it as a lift to pick him up off the ground, pressing him to a tree. The shovel just under his chin, Castiel struggles against him, unable to breathe.

"You wanna wake up from one of your stupid naps and find Abby nailed to that bench?" He spits, as if Castiel thrashing against him and the tree makes no difference to him, and he keeps him pinned there, pressing the shovel tighter against his neck. "Maybe turn on the radio in the morning and hear she came out second best in a match against that chainsaw you keep out in the shed?"

Castiel gurgles and tries to cough, and finally Dean lets him back down, dropping onto the dirt at his feet, gasping. "Do you?!" He yells down at him and Castiel shakes his head and coughs against the ground. "You can't get away," Dean says, walking backwards from Castiel's slumped over body. "I know what you did, and I ain't quittin'. Not til right gets put right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect chapter two tomorrow! (I'm so excited to finally be posting this!) Leave a comment or kudos, pls!
> 
> As I said, this is based off a movie and if you know which one don't say the name in the comments! I don't want to spoil the end for the people who don't know, or have them go looking it up and watching the movie instead lol.
> 
> Let me know what you thought, please, thank you for reading :*


	2. Two

The next morning finds Castiel sleeping well into the day and waking up for a healthy breakfast in the afternoon of stale Doritos. He sits on his couch in the striped robe and with messy hair, his glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose while he stares at the wall. More specifically, the spot on the wall where his phone plugs in at. To plug it in, or to not plug it in, that is just the million dollar question. Silently, he pushes himself from the couch and moves over to the wall, wiping his fingers on the robe and sliding the phone cord back into the wall.

He hasn't even sat back down before it starts ringing again.

"Is that you, John Wayne?" He picks up, after letting it ring a moment longer.

"Cas?" The voice shouts back, right in his just awoken ear. "Cas, are you there?!"

"Yes, Abby, I am here, please just lower your voice a little," he hisses back, probably snapping too soon, but after his brush with being strangled to death by a man with a fucking shovel last night, he didn't get much sleep. Castiel without sleep, equals someone you shouldn't raise your voice at. "What is it?"

"Where the hell have you been, I've been trying to get a hold of you _all night_ -"

"I was asleep-"

"Okay, so you unplug the phone?!"

"How may I assist you, Abby?" He replies coldly, swatting at a fly.

"Someone burned down our house, Cas."

His hand pauses in the bag of Doritos, and his eyes widen in shock, asking dumbly, "What?"

"Someone burned down our house!"

~~~~~

It's foggy outside, today. Castiel wouldn't have noticed, but now he's being forced to be outdoors and around firetrucks and police officers. Oh, and his wife and her new boyfriend. Maybe he's a little bitter.

Looking at the sight in front of him makes his stomach drop. The rubble that once was his home, his beautiful fucking home. It's gone now, black and covered in ash and there's nothing left, he can't make out anything that he recognizes. It's literally a pile of complete waste now. It's covered off in red tape and there are firemen sorting through what's left, probably trying to figure out what happened.

The first thing that happens when he sees Abby is she hugs him, tucking her head into his neck and sighing against him and all he can think about is the affair and for a split second, he's glad her house burned down.

He pushes her away in what he hopes isn't as impolite as it felt, but in the end he doesn't really care how it looks because she fucking cheated on him, he's allowed to hate her.

"I'm really sorry this happened," he says anyways, voice soft.

"So am I," she frowns, stepping back from the embrace.

"Me too," a deeper voice says and Castiel looks just in time to see Ted sliding sunglasses off his stupid face, and not only does Castiel hate him for fucking his wife, but because he wore sunglasses on a foggy day. Idiot.

"Thank you, Ted," Cas says sarcastic as ever, turning away from him and standing side by side with Abby.

"Novak's?" An officer calls for them. "You the owners?"

"Yes," the two of them say in unison, and Abby steps forward to speak with him. "We are- we were the owners."

"Were the owners? What does that mean?" He asks, and Ted shoves his way past Castiel and follows Abby and he bites his tongue and follows as well.

"Were, Mr. and Mrs. Novak," Castiel clarifies in a gruff voice. "We are the owners."

Another man steps forward, a suit underneath his opened rain coat -because the weather is rainy and not sunny, which means it does not call for sunglasses- "I'm Stephen Bradley, I'm a detective on scene and we'll try not to keep you long here, the insurance investigator needs to see you at three." The four of them walk closer to the first man who was talking, all decked out in fireman gear and with soot on his chubby cheeks.

"You're definitely victims of arson, the fire was started with a device made from a champagne bottle," he says, holding up said broken and partially melted bottle on a stick, as to not get fingerprints on it. "Filled with plain ol' gasoline."

"First question," the nerdy looking man, Stephen starts, standing beside the chubby firefighter. "Enemies? Any of you have any?"

"No, no one," Abby says, wrapping herself up against the wind.

"Not a soul," Ted adds on and Castiel looks at him incredulously, because he knows there is no way in hell he's the only person to hate the bastard.

"Would it bother you if I answer at least one or two of these, Ted?" He asks, faux politeness coming off too strong and making him sound completely annoyed, which he supposes he is. He reminds himself that hiding his true feelings of hatred for Ted would be unhealthy and not as fun because this way he gets to see that stupid, open mouthed, slack-jawed look on his face whenever he says something rude.

Ted just raises his hands up, palms facing Castiel in surrender as Abby pushes him backwards and Cas steps closer to Stephen to speak more privately.

"Uh, yeah," he looks at the ground and fusses with his hair, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I have an enemy."

~~~~~

"Sorry I wasn't there with you this morning," a blonde woman in a pantsuit says as she enters the high-rise office they're sitting in. She smiles politely at Castiel and takes a seat across from him. He, Abigail and Ted are on one side, the woman and Abigail's lawyer sit on the other. "I spent most of last night poking around the sight with a flashlight-" she cuts herself off and slides a paper across the table to the trio. "Oops, I just broke one of my own rules; I don't like to call it a sight, because it wasn't, it was a home. Your home. I'm very sorry for what happened."

"Thank you very much," Castiel says, eyeing the paper for a name. "Mrs. Evans."

"It still says Mrs. Evans," she sighs to herself, and Castiel wonders if he, or anyone was meant to hear that. "Fran is fine," she -Fran- corrects politely and smiles at Cas once more before continuing. "Now, these meetings are hard. People in your situation are already upset, and quite often they take the presence of an investigator as an accusation that they torched their own property-" all while the very polite Fran speaks to them, Abigail has slid the sweatshirt that covered her tank top off and just above her elbows, taking a sip of water. Castiel looses focus on Fran's words at that point.

"In this case, you've certainly given us a possible suspect-" Abigail's sweater is pulled back up then, and Castiel is free to pay attention to the very professional woman in front of him. "This is a list of your claimed, insurable property," Fran says, tapping one of the pieces of paper on the table in front of them. "We need you to go through the list and sign off that all these items still belong to you, and were in the house at the time of the fire. I'm told there was a separation of residence recently, so that last bit might be important."

"We're going through a divorce. It isn't final yet," Castiel nods, eyes on the table.

"Everything has been negotiated, we're just waiting for it to be signed. By both parties," Abigail says the last part in an almost guilty way; like she's ashamed that she can't just sign the damn thing and be rid of Castiel, that something inside her is holding her back. It makes Castiel grit his teeth.

"I moved out, six months ago. Haven't really gotten around to it yet."

"Been down that road," Fran smiles sweetly at Castiel. She's quite pretty, really. Castiel isn't looking, of course. He doesn't look at anyone anymore. There isn't really a point to, not really. He does find this woman attractive though, and she almost seems like she's flirting with him, and that makes him feel a little less shitty about himself. "It sucks."

At that remark, Ted sighs heavily at the end of the table and Castiel bites his tongue so he doesn't voice how he shouldn't even be in the fucking room because it isn't his house, it wasn't his house and it never will be his house. But he digresses.

"Things will wrap up when every one is ready for them to."

"That's been my feeling on it," Castiel grins down the table at Ted before downing the rest of his own glass of water.

"Do your best for now, on the list."

"Thanks," Abigail says, craning her neck to read the paper in front of Castiel's person. He scoots it her way a bit so they don't have to sit so close because it makes him feel sick when they do.

But then, it isn't that simple, is it? It can never be, not for Castiel. Because then Abigail is sliding that piece of paper just so, just the slightest bit so Ted can see it. And then Ted moves in his seat, his body nearly covering Abigail's to read over her shoulder, and then she slides it again, tipping it so Castiel is reading at a completely wrong sideways angel.

He flashes his blue eyes up to the two people on the other side of the table and then reaches completely over and slides the page back between he and Abby, clearing his throat loudly. Abigail gives him a look that she isn't allowed to give him anymore.

"I'm sorry, excuse me, do you actually intend to rubberneck?" Castiel snaps at Ted, because that look he got was unfair and uncalled for.

"I hardly think my concern would be considered rubbernecking," he says calmly as a reply.

To which Castiel the child says in a very upset child voice, "Abby, he's rubbernecking!" And then when she tries to speak up he calms down a bit and continues, "I"m not gonna freak out about this, but he's rubbernecking."

Ted starts trying to speak over Abigail, who is trying to calm down Castiel who is having none of the rubbernecking going on and finally, Castiel wins with a shout of, "this is our stuff!"

"He's right," Abigail agrees in a calm voice, and then Fran seconds -or, thirds- that, while Castiel sits back in his chair with defiant eyes and a set jaw.

"The law says you have no right to be looking at the list at all. We would allow this is nobody minds, but, it looks like mister Novak does."

"Yes," Castiel nods firmly. "Mister Novak minds, a lot."

With a sigh, Ted nods and excuses himself, saying that he'll take a lap around the park across the street. Not before planting a kiss on Castiel's wife's head. Which prompts Castiel to say, as Ted reaches the door, "Heck Ted, live a little and make it two." And then, once he's out the door, about to close it, he can't help himself and calls out, "rubbernecker."

The rest of the list reading goes by without problem.

~~~~~

After the meeting, Castiel, Abigail and a man with loud music coming from his headphones ride down the elevator together in an awkward -for Cas, at least- silence. He makes a beeline for the door as soon as they're out of there, only to have Abigail call after him.

"I need to ask you something."

He doesn't stop walking, and pulls his beanie on to prepare for walking outside. She matches his stride though and asks, "this guy, Dean Shooter, with his story...is this like the last situation like this?"

"Ugh, he groans, rolling his eyes and quickening his step.

"I wouldn't ask but it did happen once before."

"Look," he turns once he reaches the pretty glass doors, facing his wife with a hard look on his face. "That was the only time I did something like that, ever, and I paid the guy everything he wanted. Never happened before or sense. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," he finally turns to leave, annoyed with how his day, -fuck, who is he kidding? his life- is turning out. But then he sighs and turns back to her. "You and me and the lawyers, we're the only people who know about that, right?"

"Right."

"Because you haven't said anything to Ted, certainly not?"

"No," she stretches the word out in a way that makes Castiel uneasy.

"You haven't, right?"

"No, come on Cas, of course not," she rolls her eyes, and then Ted is stood next to Castiel, sunglasses pulled over his eyes and coffee in hand. The door he entered through is still held open by his foot in the door jam.

"Well, do I got timing or what," he grins, handing Abby the coffee in hand.

"You definitely do," Castiel snarks. "Real sorry you had to miss that. I know how much you like my things."

"You and me, we're gonna have a talk," he says at the same time Abby groans behind them. "Back in five minutes," Ted says to her.

Castiel turns to her with no emotion on his face as Ted opens the door, says, "I'm in trouble," and follows him through.

"I've had about enough of your bullshit," he says as soon as the pair of them is outside. Castiel stops dead and Ted bumps into his back. He turns and resists the urge to spit in his face.

"You're a dick."

"You feel better?"

"Yes I do," and then Castiel is back to walking ahead of him, trying to ignore his presence altogether.

"Hey look, marriages end, but I didn't end yours," Ted follows him down the busy street. "It was done by the time I got there.

"Really?" Castiel bites once more, still walking away. "You must have thought her wedding ring was a little strange."

"Aw, come on, man, I apologized to you months ago. Now look, I know you don't want me in your life, but guess what? I don't want you in mine either so until this little divorce thing is done, not much we can do about it!" He's stepping closer to Castiel, who has had to stop at a crossing and put up with a finger being wagged in his face like he's a fucking toddler and not the man who's wife this guy fucked.

"And I'll tell you something," he's stepping into his personal space and making him uneasy. Castiel is by no means a 'big man' and Ted is, and it's intimidating, so he backs slowly away from him. "I will not let you upset Abby anymore than you already have. So why don't we, wrap this little thing up and get out of each other's lives for good." A bus speeds by directly behind Castiel, where he's almost fell off the curb. Goosebumps raise over his entire body and he feels himself get angry.

"Are we uh, gettin' the message I'm sendin'?" Ted asks, southern twang Castiel hasn't heard him speak with coming out to fuck with his ears in an unsettling way.

"Where are we from, Teddy?" He asks, accusatory.

He scoffs in his face. "Tennessee. Cassy."

Ted turns to leave him on the corner, and Castiel calls after, "I was gonna guess Mississippi."

"Nope, a long place from there," he calls over his shoulder. "A little place called Shooter's Bay."

Castiel's stomach flips. Only a little.

~~~~~

By the time Castiel gets home that night, because his house is in the middle of nowhere, it is after dark. He's expecting to see Uriel's car parked in front of his house, but alas, he is not there.

"Come on, Uriel," he groans, hitting his hands against the steering wheel. "Five hundred dollars a day, where are you when I need you."

Groaning once more, he pulls up to his house, cutting the engine and eyeing his house. And the woods near his house. And anywhere where Dean fucking Shooter could be hiding. As soon as he steps out of the car he can hear the phone ringing inside his house and he curses himself for plugging that back in in the first place.

He quickly unlocks the front door and rushes to the phone, answering with a snappy, "yeah?"

"Where the hell you been all day?" Uriel asks on the other end, and Castiel rolls his eyes and picks takes the phone with him as he heads into the downstairs bathroom. It isn't like Uriel will know he's taking a piss, and it's not like he's going to actually  _wait_  until he gets off the phone with the man.

"I could ask you the same question."

"Relax, I checked the place out an hour ago, it's all clear."

"Yeah, well, he came by last night right after you left," he says it in an accusatory way, but it's mostly on accident, really. He knows it isn't Uriel's fault, he's just so angry about everything going on right now.

"He must have had a busy night then. The office called me and told me about the fire. Sorry about that."

"The worst part," Castiel starts, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping back up. "Is I never got the chance to get the magazine out of the house. The one with the story he says I stole, in it. That's gone up in smoke now."

"Well, lucky for you, I called your agent when I heard about the house, figured he might have a copy of the magazine," Castiel heads back into the living room and closes his front door again, locking it because of obvious reasons. "He sent the original copy by UPS, overnight. You can pick it up tomorrow after three."

"Knew there was a reason I hired you."

"There's something else," he says as Castiel sits down on the sofa, flopping down and kicking his feet up to the coffee table. "Caught up with that Tom Parker, the one who drove past you and Shooter on the road. He's a weird one; first he says he did go down Lake Drive, and he did see you, like you said. But then he gets nervous, says, no, no, no, come to think of it, I didn't. Didn't see anybody, I wasn't even on Lake Drive."

That's weird, Castiel thinks. Because Tom had his windows down and he had waved directly at the two of them, and Castiel had waved back. Dean Shooter even tipped his hat to the man. He absolutely saw them. "Well, Tom's old-"

"Don't be naive, Cas, he was scared shitless. Somebody got to him."

"Why would Shooter care if Tom Parker knows he's here?" He scoffs, scratching the scruff along his jaw. He'll shave tomorrow, he thinks. Maybe. Who really cares, because he certainly doesn't.

"Depends on what he plans to do to you," he says evenly, like that isn't a completely fucked up thing to say to a man who lives on his own and is being harassed by a crazy man. "I'm changing my opinion, Cas, I don't think Dean Shooter is just some nut. We need to consider the possibility that someone hired him to do this.

"Somebody with a crutch against you, he hires a tough guy to rattle you, yeah? Scare you to death. But he hires the wrong guy, things get out of control. They go further than they're suppose to. Dead dogs, burned down houses. And now they can't call him off."

Castiel sighs and sits forward on the couch, putting his feet back on the ground and curls in a bit on himself. "Ted," he offers, because it had been on his mind all day, the accent, being from Shooter's Bay, the threats. He can't make himself stop thinking about it. "Ted, Abby's Ted. The Ted she left me for. Maybe that's why the guy calls himself Shooter, he wants me to know it's him, intimidate me."

"Why? What does he want?" He asks, and as though he can see Castiel shrug through the phone call, he asks, "did you piss him off?"

Flashes of red. He sees red, and white hot red at that, he hears yelling and vaguely recognizes it as himself. Most of all he sees Abby in bed with a man that isn't him and the yelling is louder and more understandable.

"I might have," he finally replies.

"Alright, here's what we do; what proof do you have that Shooter was there?"

Castiel feels the ache in his upper arms and cradles the phone in against his shoulder to roll up the sleeve of one side. "Bruises. I've got bruises on my arms from where he grabbed me."

"Alright," Uriel says, as if that's good, that he's got bruises on his body from some man. "Me and you, we're gonna visit Tom Parker tomorrow. Bring his story, bring your bruises."

"Boyd's Store? Breakfast?" Castiel offers, and they agree on nine am sharp.

~~~~~

Castiel cannot, for the life of him, sleep through the whole night. He dozes and wakes up in his bed with only really one thought on his mind.

"It is a good ending," he even says it out loud, laying back in his bed, unable to get back to sleep because Dean Shooter is ruining his life when he isn't even there. "It's a good fucking ending."

And then he gets up, still dark outside.

~~~~~

He wakes again on the couch, because the sun had moved right into his eyes and was burning his lids through his glasses. While the accidental falling asleep had been good because at least he got some rest, it also meant he passed out wearing his glasses and he's lucky to have not rolled over and cracked them. And, that he was absolutely late.

"Shit," he flings the robe that had served as a blanket for the night, off of him and stands, checking his watch. Ten fifteen. Fucking late. He pulls his coat on, which had been neatly thrown in a ball on the chair along with his beanie and moves to exit his home, only to find, when he looks up, one of the sets of keys on his key holder is missing. Cas pats himself down, checks his pockets but of course, no dice.

With a worried sigh, he pulls open his now unlocked front door, ready to have a look and nearly steps on the big, black hat sat directly in front of his door. The same big, black hat that is normally adorning a tall man with broad shoulders and a deep, threatening voice, hiding green eyes and an ever present frown. And then his heart is in his throat again because it was obvious enough that he was here, his house is unlocked and the keys missing, but now he's leaving shit here; a hat that is sure to have DNA on it. Like he isn't afraid, like it means nothing that Castiel has a cop and witness and all of that because _he isn't scared_ and that scares him almost as much as everything else that's happened because of Dean Shooter.

He steps over the hat with shaky, long legs, still clad in a pair of jeans and looks through the clear covering of the porch screen's door. At least Cas' car is there still, though it is running and parked right next to a tree. Not at all where he parked last night. The driver's side door is also opened, and it's beeping because of that, so he opens the screen and walks down the couple of steps and out to his car. He sits down and cuts the engine to stop the insistent beeping and looks around the car for clues or something else Shooter could have left.

Castiel finds a cigarette butt in the change holder. "Stupid bastard," he mutters as he goes back inside, retrieves a garbage sack, as to not get his own finger prints on the hat, and takes it with him on his way to the store-slash-diner he had been suppose to meet Uriel at an hour or so ago, hoping he might still be there.

~~~~~

"Did a guy come in here looking for me at around nine o'clock?" Castiel finds himself sitting at the diner's bar stool while a woman pours him coffee that he didn't order.

"No," she shakes her head.

"Big-ish black guy? Kinda New York cop type?" He tries and she just shrugs, shaking her head once more.

"No, that doesn't ring a bell," she smiles softly at him, apologetic.

"I overslept."

"Well maybe he did too, cause he wasn't here."

He nods and says a quiet, "yeah," though he doesn't believe it.

On his way home from the diner, Castiel drives by a Gas-n-Sip, sees a familiar man pumping gas. He passes by but quickly decides otherwise and backs up and into the parking lot, stopping his car directly in front of Ted's to block him in.

"What are you doing here?" He asks as he gets out of his car, leaving it running because he doesn't think this will take too long.

"Matter of fact, I was just on my way to your place."

He doesn't know why Ted was coming to his house, but shrugs it off, asking instead, "where's your buddy?"

Ted looks around, as if to see someone and shrugs. "I came alone."

"Sure you did," Castiel says softly as he steps over to Ted. They meet next to his car on the driver's side and Castiel squares his shoulders. "I know what you're up to."

"Look, Cas," he says casually, hands in his jacket pockets as he leans against the driver's door. "A lot of what's happening right now, is my fault. Most of it, in fact."

Well that clears it up. Ted is behind Dean Shooter, Ted brought Dean Shooter in his life and Castiel had no idea he could fucking hate Ted more than he did six months ago but dammit, does he ever.

"What do you want?"

"I want you out of our life," he says, pushing off the car and reaching into the open window, pulling out a stack of papers. "Gotta sign your papers, Cas," he slaps them down on the hood of the car and goes back to leaning against it.

"My divorce papers?" He asks incredulously, feeling himself get upset. "Tell her to send them to my lawyer."

"Yeah, she did and he said you won't return his calls-"

"That's what this is all about?" Castiel restrains from yelling, but does raise his voice. "About getting me to sign these fucking papers?!"

"Just calm down-"

"Money! It's all about money?"

"What this is about," Ted shouts, standing up straight and facing Castiel head-on. "Is getting this thing over with, because if we don't, who knows where this is gonna go, and I think you know what I'm talking about."

"Well Teddy, I think I do, but here's the problem," he's calmed himself down a bit, takes a deep breath and licks his lips before speaking again. "I don't respond well to intimidation; makes me feel icky." And then he shoves Ted back, pushing his shoulders.

Ted chuckles and fixes his douchebag brown leather jacket, and Castiel squirms between Ted and the Car, his back against the side of the door, how Ted had been standing earlier only on the backdoor instead.

"I'm trying to have a normal conversation here-"

"I buried my dog, mister. This whole thing, it's out of your control now, you know it and I know it. You started this shit, and I'm gonna finish it," he's smiling, proud of his unwavering voice and strong stance. "Now do me a favor and go tell that to your filthy little friend," he shoves his hand against Ted's forehead, thumping his neck back so he can leave, and Ted lunges, swinging a fist and hitting it against the rolled up back window, and Castiel laughs as he groans in pain and clutches his fist to his chest.

"Bummer, Ted," he says as he passes him, going back to his own car.

~~~~~

Castiel gets home quite soon after the incident with Ted, and he tosses Dean Shooter's hat onto the coffee table. As soon as he's about to go into the kitchen though, right when his back is turned, can you believe it, his phone starts ringing.

He flops back onto the couch and bites back the anger in his tone as he answers the damn thing with an impolite, "yeah?"

"Go to where we met the other day," Dean Shooter tells him through the phone and Castiel feels the hairs on his arms stand up. "Walk down the path a little way."

"Why?"

"I'll catch up with you this afternoon. Anyone you call between now and then is your responsibility."

And then the call is over and Castiel is left clutching the phone and listening to a dial tone.

He runs down the path where he and Shooter had talked. The same spot where Tom Parker had witnessed them speaking, actually. He stops dead though, when he's about halfway to where they had been, and sees Tom's car sat in the dirt. Which cannot be good.

Castiel circles round to the front, where he can see Tom Parker in the driver's seat, staring on forward. "Tom?" He calls out, because the windows are up and he doesn't know why he isn't turning to look at Castiel. Stepping closer to the window, he can see a screwdriver piercing through the right side of his head and he turns and immediately vomits on the ground. There's blood on the ceiling of the car, splashed on the windows and a bloody hatchet sat in the passenger's seat. Coming back up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he's stood right at the back window, where he can see Uriel, head tipped back at an uncomfortable looking angle. Dead.

He backs away from the car and whips around at the sound of rustling, only to be faced with a squirrel in a tree. It's the last thing he sees before he sways on his feet and falls, fainting.

When Castiel wakes again, he can see dirt and a tire, along with his dark hair messing up his vision. And then he jolts upwards at the memory of what happened; of what he saw before passing out. He looks to his watch but before his blurry eyes can make out the time, he hears a southern drawl behind him, "quarter passed two."

He tries to stand, but ends up dragging his legs behind him, because one of them is asleep and he can't walk on them and he knows there is no way he can get away right now. Stumbling to the hood of the car that holds two dead men in it, he catches himself and hurries into an almost standing position.

"You've been out about three hours- ah, you're legs asleep, you we're layin' on the damn thing!" He calls after Castiel as he tries to get away again, away from Dean Shooter, and he forces himself to hobble down the dirt path. "I woulda moved you, but I didn't wanna wake you. Got tired of waitin'. Almost pinned a note on you, but decided not to. You scare too easy.

"I wouldn't go too far, if I were you!" He continues as Castiel gets the feeling back in his legs enough so that he's only left with walking on that pins and needles feeling in his toes and the balls of his feet. "You're tied to those two men in more ways than you know."

"You're insane and I'm going to the police," he's nearing on hysteria, as any person would be in this situation.

"Who's screwdriver you think is in that fella's head?" He counters, and Castiel doesn't know if he's more scared or more angry. "You leave them here and I disappear, you're gonna find yourself standin' with your head in a noose."

"What do you want from me?!" He can't turn around; can't face the man who killed his two people earlier today, and left them for Cas to find.

"I told you that already, mister Novak. I want you to fix my story. The one you stole." Castiel can hear the crunching of Dean Shooter's shoes against the ground behind him, can hear him getting closer. "Or aren't you ready to admit it yet?"

"I, did not. Steal. Your story."

"You'd let yourself get caught for murder before you admit that," he says, and Castiel catches him lighting a cigarette when he does turn around and feel his stomach flip again.

"I have the magazine, you lunatic," he says, and then shouts, "I have the magazine! I have, the Goddamn magazine!"

"You have this, so called magazine right now-"

"On me, no. I was gonna go pick it up at three o'clock," he's panting and he can't catch his breath and he wants to strangle Dean Shooter, kill him right now like he killed those other men, like he killed his dog. But he isn't a killer. Castiel isn't a murderer.

"There can't be a magazine," the way he says it, it's so tired and defeated sounding that Castiel wonders if maybe he's understanding him, understands that he didn't take shit from him, but then he keeps talking. "Not one with that story in it, because that story is mine."

And then Castiel is done, with the situation, with the his life, with everything. "What do you want, you wanna kill me? Why don't you just do it?" He steps forward, arms swung wide on either side, and if anyone saw it would look like Cas was asking for a hug, and not to be killed.

"No sir," Dean Shooter spits, as if disgusted with the suggestion of killing someone, which he obviously isn't. "These others here," he points to the car behind them a bit, "they were gonna get in the way of our business, and I couldn't have that." Stepping closer and towering over Castiel a bit, Dean Shooter talks down to him. "You bring me that story, if it exists. Your house, two hours. You've got some heavy liftin' to deal with first, and I'd get to it if I were you."

He starts to walk down the road the opposite way they came, and then turns around again. "If you call someone else for help, or you don't show up at four o'clock, I will burn your life and every person in it like a cane field in a high wind."

"And when I show you the magazine that has _my_ name on the content page with _my_  story inside? Then what?"

"Then I turn myself in," he says simply, even going as far as to shrug a shoulder. "But if things turn out that way then I suppose I am crazy. And that kind of crazy man has no reason or excuse to live."

They stay like that, looking at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time before he speaks again. "You've got my hat, and I want it back either way."

And then he's walking away for good this time.

After Dean Shooter is out of the general area, Castiel moves back to the car down the dirt path. He uses his shirt sleeves to cover his hands, to hide the fingerprints, before he opens the passenger side door. It smells like blood in the car, and it makes him resist the urge to vomit again. His eyes are on Tom Parker as he slides in the car, accidentally sitting on the handle of the bloody hatchet, which looks like it was used to kill Uriel. He nervously smacks it with a covered hand to the floor, shaking.

He raises a hand to Tom's head, but then groans and drops it again because he doesn't _want_  to do this. He knows he'd be blamed though, so he has to. He finds a brown bag on the floor and covers his right hand with it and uses that to pry the screwdriver from the old man's temple.

Once out of the car again, he slides an arm through the now rolled down driver's window and starts the car, shifting it into drive as he steers it down the road, ready to drive it right into the water, down off a steep ledge.

The car starts picking up speed though, and a rock in the middle of the road hits a tire, rocking the vehicle and moving Tom Parker's head to hit the center of it, honking the horn in one long, loud sound. After a second or two of panic, he gets his head back against the seat though, only it locks Castiel's watch through the gearshift on the wheel, keeping him attached at the wrist to the soon to be hurtled off a cliff vehicle. He does snag his wrist back just in time, snapping the watch completely, so he doesn't fall in with the car, but his watch definitely does.

~~~~~

When he gets back home, his heart is hammering in his chest and his phone is ringing. He debates for a moment weather to answer, and when he chooses no, a second later he feels scared and guilty and answers anyways. "Hello?"

"Cas?" Abigail asks on the other line and he pulls the phone away from his ear as his eyebrows scrunch up and he groans out a quiet, _no._

"Yeah, hi."

"I've been so worried about you, are you okay?"

"I'm okay, Abby, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" She whispers back and Castiel bites his tongue. "When I saw you yesterday you just seemed so strained." She's sniffling on the other end and Castiel absolutely does not have the fucking time for this.

"What?!" He snaps, half way meaning to think it but not upset that he said it.

"Do you, um," she starts, sniffling again, clearly crying. "Do you think things would have been different if we hadn't lost the baby?"

"Jesus Christ, I don't- Abby, no-" he starts pacing back and forth, annoyed. "Let me call you later, I have to go, I've gotta be somewhere."

Before he even finishes his sentence, she lets out a loud sob on the other end of the phone, and he snaps again.

"What? What is it Abby?" When she doesn't stop, he sits back down and sighs. "Breathe, Abby, breathe. Where are you? At Ted's?"

"Yeah."

"How are we feeling about ol' Ted these days?"

There's rustling on her end and more crying before she answers. "I don't know. I love him I guess."

"Oh good. That's good."

"I didn't go with other men," she says randomly, voice scratchy from crying. "I always wanted to tell you that, I didn't go with other men. Just Ted and only the last few months when you and me were already over."

"Well if we were over while we were still together, you might have mentioned it to me, because it was news to me." He's bitter. Bitter like no other, and he hates this woman for what she did to him, and he's just so full of pent up rage at her that he wonders how he can function.

"That's because you were never there, you were gone all the time."

"I worked at home, Abby," he spits, gritting his teeth.

"That isn't what I mean, even when you were with me you were gone, up in your head. I don't think I looked in your eyes and saw you really look back at me for the last two years-"

"You know what, you're right. You're right, absolutely right. It was all my fault."

"No, I was a chickenshit. Ted wanted us to go and tell you together and I just kept putting it off. I'll never forget the look on your face that night."

And that's all of this conversation that he can handle. "I have to go."

"Cas, can't we ju-"

"No! I've got to go, Abby."

"Will you call me if you need me?"

"I doubt it?"

"Can I come over?"

"Why on earth would you do that, Abby?"

"You still haven't signed the papers yet, Cas-"

He doesn't hear the rest. He's fucking mad, because this bitch of a woman called him and almost tricked him into thinking that she gave a shit about him when it was all about the same thing. Always the divorce, fucking always.

"Unbelievable," he laughs, actually laughs, which he hasn't done in who knows how long. "You were worried about me and I believed you. What an idiot."

"I am worried," she defends herself and he scoffs. "You sound like you did six months ago and I feel like it's my fault, and I want to take it back but I can't-"

"Yeah, well you shouldn't have fucked him then!" He snaps, shouting and slamming the phone into the cradle.

Immediately after the phone call, Castiel is back in his car and driving down to the post office to pick up the magazine with his story in it. He doesn't know then, that Abigail is just leaving Ted's to go to his house, even though he told her it wasn't necessary.

Once out of the car, an officer -the insanely old and arthritis riddled one- is calling his name and asking him to talk, but he just waves him off and enters the post office instead, because he wasn't suppose to call the police and if he talks to a cop he's going to end up spilling his guts to the man, which would only get them both in more trouble with Dean Shooter.

"Hey, mister Novak," the cute boy behind the desk greets when he enters, putting a book he had been reading down on the table. Once he approaches, his eyes narrow and he asks, "are you alright?"

Cas just smiles and nods, clearing his throat. And then the boy tilts his head. "You look very pale."

"Yeah thank you, did the UPS guy drop anything off for me?"

"Just one thing," he smiles and stands, turning around and grabbing a wide envelope with his name scrawled across the top.

"Thank you," he says, taking it and turning to leave.

"You know, the post office people would have a cow if they knew we had the UPS guy's stuff," he says, leaning forward on his elbows, towards Castiel, batting eyelashes and all. If only he had the time, he'd put the effort into flirting back.

"I know," he grins, nodding. "I do appreciate it, though."

"You won't tell on me, will you?" He asks lowly once Castiel's turned towards the door again.

"No way," he says, flashing the boy a smile.

"Good, cause I saw what you did."

He stops dead in his tracks, the wind completely knocked out of him.

"I'm sorry?" He turns slowly to face him and he smiles.

"I said they'd shoot me if you did," he just stands there, kind of staring and very thankful. "You aught to go home and lie down mister Novak. You really don't look well at all."

"Yeah, good idea," he mumbles numbly, nervous fingers tearing open the envelope as he heads back outside and into his car. He wants to get the thing open but he can see the officer who had been trying to talk to him earlier making his way over, so he tosses it in the seat next to him and starts the car. Not in time though, because he pops his head near the passenger side window and smiles at Castiel.

"Got a minute?

"Well," he stalls, looking around and avoiding the man. "No, I really don't right now, but I can give you a call later."

He nods a little, smiling. "Okay, sure."

Castiel is so nervous he can nearly feel his bones shake, and maybe he can, because he feels different and scared and like he's going a bit crazy. So as he backs out, he shouts to the officer, "I'm gonna call you on the phone!"

Like that wasn't fucking obvious.

When Castiel makes it home, it's quick. He pretty much sped through town to get back as soon as he could, though he probably shouldn't draw attention to himself like that, but he needs to be home because if he's not there when Dean Shooter is than who knows what the fuck will happen?

Quick hands open the already partially torn envelope and he grasps the magazine, shaky fingers opening up the to the front page to see what page his story is on.

_Secret Garden --- Castiel Novak --- Page 83_

He flips through the thing, slowing down near the mark only to find that the magazine goes from pages eighty two to ninety nine.

It isn't there. It's gone. It is completely ripped out, the pages torn and frayed near the spine of the book and he chokes out a gasp.

"Eighty two," he mutters to himself, turning the page yet again, like the outcome will be different. "Ninety nine," the pages where his story goes, it's obvious it was cut out. By scissors probably, because it's a neat cut. Smooth. Unnoticeable until you look for it. "He cut it out. You son of a bitch."

He traces a finger along the short, cut pages, as if his finger will magically heal them, like the pages will grow anew and his words will be on them, printed exactly how he wrote them. But that isn't what happens. Nothing happens, actually.

"You cut it out. Out of the magazine."

_Wait a minute, how could he do that?_

"I don't know," he says to himself. "But he did it."

_Think about it. How?_

"I don't know," he says again, getting out of the car with the magazine in hand. Inside, he sits at the sofa, right in front of Dean Shooter's hat still sat exactly where he left it on the coffee table. He picks it up and traces the brim of it with a finger, how he did with the ripped pages of his story.

And then he puts it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! One left, it'll be up shortly :*


	3. Three

Castiel stands up in Dean Shooter's hat and goes to the mirror hanging above the fireplace. He admires himself in the hat, turning his head at different angles and adjusting it on his head, running his fingers along the brim and feeling the softness of the black fabric under his touch.

_Why'd you put it on?_

"I don't know."

_Maybe he wanted you to._

"Why would he want me to put his hat on?"

_Maybe he wants you to..._

"Maybe he wants me to what?" Castiel snaps at himself, turning away from the mirror, but his reflection is still there, looking at him and talking to him and right in front of him.

The Castiel he's looking at isn't wearing Dean Shooter's hat, and he's smiling. He raises his hands to either side of his head and points, making a circling motion with either hand, grinning. "To get confused."

"Oh, I'm already confused, pilgrim," he turns away from himself and takes the hat off, tossing it away. "Plenty confused, so don't talk to me about confusion," he says, annoyed, as he walks over to the keys hanging beside the door, but the other Castiel is already there, leaning casually against the wall.

"Wait a minute now, back up just a second," the other Castiel says, taking off his glasses and cleaning the lenses with his shirt. "What about that?"

"What about what?" He grumbles as he takes off his jacket and throws it over the back of the couch.

"Well, pilgrim," the Castiel sitting on the sofa says to him, shrugging. "Shooter's Bay and about half a dozen other details you've chosen to ignore."

"You know what," Castiel says as he pulls his robe on and tightens it around his small frame. "You're nuts. I don't need to listen to this shit from you."

"Are all these things coincidences?" The Castiel blocking his way to the kitchen asks, putting his glasses back on.

"I'm wearing his bruises aren't I?" He shouts at himself. "Aren't I?!"

"Are you?" Other Castiel counters.

"Well," he shoves one of the robe's sleeves upward, exposing his upper arm. Pale skin, completely unharmed.

"This doesn't make any sense," he's confused, painfully so, and he turns around to face another Castiel.

"Do you want to hear something that does make sense? Call the police."

Another Castiel holds the phone out to him as he turns again. "Call them and tell them to get down here right this second so they can lock you up before you can do any more damage."

"I'm gonna get a knife and cut you out of me," he threatens to himself, tugging at his hair.

_Before you kill anyone else._

The other Castiel's are gone now but he can hear them.

"I didn't kill anybody," he murmurs to himself, hands in his hair. He didn't kill Uriel, or Tom Parker, he didn't do that, Dean Shooter did. He didn't kill Chico, Dean Shooter did. Why would they say he killed someone?

Why would _he_  say he killed someone?

All the sudden it's red again, and he's screaming in Abigail and Ted's face while they clutch to each other in bed, naked at that shitty hotel.

_You had a gun._

"It wasn't loaded."

_Really?_

"No!"

_You almost killed them._

The voices, they're circling him and they won't leave, and it's his voice and it's so loud he clutches his hair and curls in on himself, still standing and convincing himself of all these things.

_You wanted to._

"The gun was not loaded!"

_You still want to._

The other Castiel is back and jerks his hands out of his hair to force him to look at himself. "Listen to me, because this is how it happens. This is how it happens to people. There is no Dean Shooter-"

"Shut. Up."

"There never has been."

"Shut up!"

"You invented him. Listen to me and not to him, before it's too late."

"Leave me alone!" Castiel screams, picking up a paper wait near the door throwing it as hard as he can at the other Castiel, only he's gone and it goes flying through the air and clashes into the wall, cracking it.

_You are alone._

The crack in the wall, it goes up and up and up, keeps growing with every breath and every blink and then it's all the way up the wall, off the wall and touching the wood ceiling of his cabin-like house, and then some. It won't stop, just keeps on growing, cracking and cracking and all Castiel can do is watch as it goes all the way around his house.

The voices in his head tell him he isn't handling this right, that he has no idea what he's doing and they're whispering over each other until he can't hear their words, just a steady flow of their voices, which are all his own voice.

Castiel is facing the mirror again, but he can't see his face. He's looking at the back of his head, his messy dark hair and the back of the old, worn-out robe. As he walks towards the image of himself, the reflection walks backwards, towards him.

He can hear one of the voices reading Dean Shooter's story in his head.

"What is happening to me?" He asks, staring at the back of his head in the mirror.

"Oh I think you know," Dean Shooter says, not in his head, but very real and very much in his house. "I think you have a real good idea."

"You don't exist."

"Who, me?" Dean smiles at him and he doesn't see it, because he isn't looking. "Oh, I exist. I exist because you made me, sweetheart."

His voice, every time they had ever spoken had never been this gentle. Almost as if Dean is trying to soothe him, like he understands that Castiel is confused and he wants to actually help him understand. He called him sweetheart when he had been calling him a thief; he wants Castiel to listen to him, to know he isn't a danger.

"You thought me up, gave me my name. You told me everything you wanted me to do."

Castiel's brain thinks up him and Abigail at a yard sale on a weekend however many years ago. He was clean shaven and bright eyed and so happy as he took one of the old black hats off the table and admired himself in a full length, standing mirror, Abby laughing at him over his shoulder.

"Check me out," he had said, smiling. "I'm a dairy farmer from Mississippi." He even had a twang in his voice, one not quite as deep as Dean Shooter's, but it was there nonetheless.

And then another memory comes up, one he'd never seen before.

One of himself lighting a bottle of champagne on fire and tossing it in the window of Abigail's house once she and Ted had left for the night. The sound of glass popping and fire cracking accompany this memory and he doesn't want to believe it.

"I did them things, sweetheart, so you wouldn't have to," Dean tells him and his brain thinks up him sitting in the passenger's seat of Tom Parker's car.

_"Right up there, Tom, we were standing right up there," the Castiel in his head says, as an alive Tom Parker drives, Uriel sat in the backseat._

_"Yeah I know, Cas, I saw you," Tom tells him, though the picture is foggy in his head, the man's voice is loud and clear. "I didn't wanna say it in front of him, but you were alone."_

_"I know Tom, but just pull over for a second, I've gotta show you guys something," Castiel says, hatchet gripped tight in his hand where the two other men can't see._

"You didn't have the stomach to do it yourself, but you knew I did," Dean says softly, closer to him when he speaks this time.

The Castiel in his head takes the hatchet and swings it fast and hard into Uriel's chest right before taking the screwdriver and nailing it through sweet Tom Parker's temple.

"Are we done yet?" Shooter asks him. "Have we got things all cleaned up around here?"

When Castiel doesn't answer him, he goes on anyways. "What's the real reason I come for?"

"Fix the story," he says immediately, and Dean approaches him, talking smooth and encouraging right in his ear, voice so soft and gentle Castiel wonders how Dean Shooter could have ever scared him.

"That's right, sweetheart, fix the story."

"Fix the story. Gotta fix the ending."

"And how exactly do you suppose we aught'a do that?" Dean asks, wrapping one arm around Castiel, his hat in hand and pressing the thing to Castiel's chest, gently. Castiel takes the hat from his grip and then Dean Shooter is gone once more, as soon as Castiel hears tires rolling up outside his house.

The tires of Abigail's car.

~~~~~

"Cas?" Abigail calls out, stepping out of her car. She wasn't really expecting an answer, though she can see Castiel is home. His car is parked out front, but that doesn't mean he can hear her all the way out here. It's eerily quiet too, there aren't even any squawking birds or animals rustling in the trees. And normally Chico would be out of his doggy door quick as ever to greet her.

She does not have a good feeling, but walks on anyways.

After a few steps she hears something other than the crunch of dirt under her feet, and then there's something caught on her leg. Looking down she raises an eyebrow and bends at the waist to grab the piece of paper the wind had blown into her.

_Secret Garden - Castiel Novak_

Looking up once more from the ripped and dirtied paper, her eyes flash to Castiel's car, just ahead of her. Right there, on the ground by the driver's side door, there's about ten or so other pages fluttering around, some blowing away and others caught on the ground by the tires of the car. Abigail remembers Cas talking to her not so long ago about this story, Secret Garden. She hadn't liked it, and still doesn't. She doesn't know at all what Cas has gotten himself into, but she knows it involves this story and another writer, and maybe it's the wind but a chill runs through her entire body.

Abigail walks up to the secluded off porch and through the screeching screen door, eyeing a large rock that sits in her way, just in front of Castiel's door. Ignoring it, she steps around and knocks on the glass windowed area of the wooden door, tentatively. No answer. So she knocks a bit more; a bit louder.

Again, with the no answer.

She rolls her eyes and cracks it open a bit, calling into the house, "Cas? Are you there? I saw your car outside."

Sighing, she pushes through and into the house. He's probably napping, like always, she thinks, calling out a gentle, more to herself, "hello," into the emptiness of her old home. Walking through the threshold gives her an odd feeling. This had been the house her and Castiel bought as a engaged couple, before they were even married. She loved this place, and honestly she probably would have given Cas their bigger, nicer house if they had been able to speak about it a little more in depth, so long as she got this one. It was so beautiful inside.

Well, not right now.

Right now, it looks like a tornado blew through. There are books scattered literally, _everywhere,_ pages and documents thrown around carelessly. One of the side tables near the couch is broken and laying on it's side. She peaks her head into the kitchen and it's just as bad. She is baffled, honestly, because last she remembered, Castiel had a maid who would probably not allow it to get as bad as it is. There's bags of chips on the floor, a chair toppled over on it's back, but not broken. Like it was kicked back and fell, rather than having a snapped leg.

There's overflowing dishes in the sink, disgusting old food that had long since gone bad, the rug is completely kitty-wompus on the hardwood floor and honestly, it kind of smells. It makes her sad, but also kind of pissed that he had been so normal in front of her when clearly something is going on in his life, based off of the state of his home.

She sighs and drops her purse near the front door, "Cas?" She tries again, walking through the living room. "Chico?"

When she gets no reply, not even the sound of paws running through the house, she turns around and starts tiding a bit, picking a lamp up off the couch and steadying it on the upright end table. Her eyes wander through, and at the sight of a hole in the wall, she starts. It's large, bigger than a fist for sure. Eyes darting around a little more worriedly, they land on the coffee table in front of the couch, where an empty Jack Daniel's bottle is sitting, along with a pack of cigarettes.

"That explains a lot," she mutters to herself.

A creaking floorboard upstairs catches her attention and she moves around the furniture to start climbing the stairs, up to Cas' office. From downstairs she can see he isn't there, but he could be in his room.

His office, she discovers is in a state of distress to match the rest of the house. Papers, old books, clothes, all over the floor. There's a stack of papers on the middle of the desk, -the only organized thing about the room, she would say- and she gathers the papers in her hands, thinking maybe it's a book Cas has been working on. Upon clearing off the desk, she sees something that sends a jolt of something awful into her veins and makes her heartbeat jump.

The papers had been covering carvings into the wood of the desk, the same word written up and down six times.

_SHOOTER_   
_SHOOTER_   
_SHOOTER_   
_SHOOTER_   
_SHOOTER_   
_SHOOTER_

Abigail drops the stack of papers without even reading whatever it is that's inside of them and she looks down, off the overhang and out the window of the living room, which has _SHOOTER_ written across the blinds in white. Looking to the ground with wide eyes, the coffee table with the cigarettes and Jack Daniel's has the same carving as the table in front of her, large letters.

_S H O O T E R_

All around that is the same thing only smaller, carved into the table. Just, shooter written over, and over, and over and over again.

Her heart beat now a little less steady, -as if she's been jogging and she can't catch her breath- she turns to her left and there it is again, carved into the wall above the window overlooking the garden, _SHOOTER_ , and then twice more to the left of that and now Abigail can't breathe, it's written everywhere, shooter, shooter, shooter. There isn't an empty spot for more than a few inches, just carvings into the wall.

The creaking door startles her and she gasps as it swings closed, revealing Castiel who was stood hiding behind it, who had been listening to her and watching her the entire time.

And there he is, head down, wearing a black, large rimmed hat.

He's there, stood next to the word _SHOOT_ , right after the messy carved out T, and then the door swings closed completely, revealing the word, _HER_ , scraped into the back of the door.

Now she really can't breathe.

Castiel looks up at her with his piercing blue eyes, a scowl set on his lips.

Dropping her hand from where it was covering her mouth, -how it got there, she can't remember- she whispers out a gentle, scared, "h-hi."

He doesn't say anything back, and she finds herself walking closer to him, because she was married to this man for ten years and surely, surely he is safe. "Jesus, Cas," she breaths, "where'd you get that old thing, the attic?"

"This is mine. Wasn't ever anybody else's." His voice. It's different enough for her to look to her right at the open front door, and she starts thinking of how she can get out. He isn't Cas, he's speaking with an accent that makes goosebumps rise and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, because this is not _Cas._

She rounds on him, slowly, her back to the stairs as she starts stepping down them, still facing Castiel. She doesn't want him to know she's trying to leave. "Cas, what's wrong?"

"You got you a wrong number, miss," he grins as he finally steps away from the wall, standing directly in front of Abigail who is paused on the first step down. His hand reaches up and pulls the hair tie out of her hair, and she gasps, stepping down another stair as he tosses it to the side. "Ain't no Cas here. Cas' dead," they're both going down the stairs now, he's matching every step Abigail makes, so close to her. "He did a whole lot of squirmin' around, but in the end he couldn't lie to himself anymore, let alone to me."

Abigail is panting out shakily through her nose as she tires to pick up the pace, get to her purse and out to her car and away from Castiel, but she's afraid to make any quicker movements that will make him angry, so she sticks with calmly as she can, walking down the stairs while she listens to him drawl on in that accent.

"Now, I never laid a hand on him, miss, I swear. He took the cowards way out," he grins down at her, a smile that doesn't belong to Castiel at all.

"Why are you talking this way, Cas?" She finds herself asking, despite herself.

"It's just the way I talk," he cocks his head, innocent.

"You're scaring me."

"It don't matter," he smiles again and raises his other hand, a pair of scissors between his fingers. "You won't be scared long," Abigail gasps as he takes a swipe at her, and she turns around to run, but Castiel grabs her by the hair and pulls. Luckily, she reaches back and smacks him hard enough to get him to let go, his hat falling off as she runs and grabs her purse. She grabs her keys and drops her bag outside, quickly getting in her car and locking the doors before Castiel has even had a chance to stand back up, back inside the house.

The car starts on the first go, and her eyes are on the house as she presses her foot into the accelerator, but she doesn't move. Castiel is on the porch now, hat back on, dropping the scissors in favor the rock that had been on the floorboards on the porch, in front of the door. She struggles with the gearshift, Cas striding right on up to the passenger side of her car and knocking the window out with the rock while she screams.

Too late she notices the red light telling her that her emergency brake was on.

Castiel is reaching in through the busted window while she quickly takes the brake off, and the car starts moving backwards while he grabs a fistful of her hair with one hand, and her arm with the other while she struggles against him. The car rolls into a tree and stops, and Castiel is dragging her out through the broken widow, and then back into his house while she screams.

"I'm about done fussin' with you," he growls as she fights against him. He lets her go and takes hold of the screwdriver that's still red from Tom Parker's blood, and she tries crawling away, but Castiel stabs her right through the back of her calf. Screaming, she turns herself onto her back, supporting her body with her elbows and swiftly kicks Castiel in the face with the foot on her uninjured leg. His mouth his bloody when he finally looks back at her, but she's now standing and leaving a bloody foot print with every step along the hardwood floor. She makes her way to the side door, because it's closer, but once she's there, Castiel pushes her forward, off the three steps and face first into a rock in the ground.

While she groans and whimpers on the floor, Castiel -Dean- shakes his head at her. "I am so sorry, miss, but right is right and fair is fair, and something has got to be done." Cas grabs for a shovel leaning against the house and hauls it over his shoulder while he goes to stand over Abigail and talk to her. "By the way, I want you to know that none of this was my idea. It was mister Novak all along," he's standing up near her face where she has rolled onto her back, clearly in pain.

Her hand grabs at his jeans, above his knee and wrapping around his inner thigh. "You are mister Novak," she croaks, her hand slipping down to his calf, too weak to hold on.

"I got a place for you," he smiles, blood smearing down his chin.

"You are Castiel Novak," she tries once more.

"I've got it all picked out."

"You are Castiel," she whimpers again. He knows it isn't true, and deep down, she knows it too.

The both quiet at the sound of tires and she grips his jeans tighter around her fingers, "Cas-"

He kicks his leg out of her grasp and peaks through the screen of the enclosed front porch to make sure.

And then he presses his back against the house, where the visitor won't see him waiting with the shovel. Abigail is moaning and crying on the ground, which is sure to draw attention to what has been happening.

"Abigail?" They call out from the front of the house. "Abby?" The sound of the screen door opening with a creak and footsteps on the porch make Dean smile.

Abigail, bless her heart, does exactly what Dean had been hoping she would do. What he was counting on her doing, in fact. He almost wishes she hadn't cried out Ted's name, alerting him to their whereabouts because this will be so easy and he had enjoyed the fight she put up with him. This way will be too easy.

Just as Dean predicted, Ted comes running to save his damsel in distress, and just as he opens the next screen door and is about to make his way down the few stairs, Castiel strikes him in the face with the back of the shovel, Abigail cries out, and Ted drops like a sack of bricks.

She's crying now, actual tears, and Dean just rolls his eyes because it's all so dramatic, he wonders how Castiel hadn't let him do this earlier. He waits for Abigail to lift her head up, and when she does he smiles big before raising the shovel again and digging into Ted's neck, just so she could watch.

Once Dean is sure that the man is dead, he turns to Abigail, who is laying back, tears and blood from her head wound all over her face. He grins once more and starts making his way to her.

""I know I can do it," Todd Downy said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time, her death will be a mystery, even to me.""

Dean recites that ending perfectly and with a smile on his face, because this is how it should be done. This is how it _had_ to be done. There was no way that gentle man, Castiel could have done the things he'd dreamed of doing himself. Castiel needed Dean, and he was silly to think he could have gotten rid of Dean.

Dean Shooter had finally convinced Castiel of what he already knew; that this is the only ending.

~~~~~

Two Murders and Four Months Later

Freshly showered and neatly shaved Castiel makes his way into Boyd's Store to pick up some groceries. He smiles at the young teenage boy stocking shelves and the woman behind the counter of the diner area who is pouring somebody coffee. The boy from the post office, the cute one who had been worried about Castiel all those weeks ago is there, and he greats him with a perky, "hi," and a soft smile.

The boy doesn't smile back, but Castiel doesn't notice, because he's going down an isle to go get his own things, while the boy hurries his way up to the counter, tapping his foot anxiously. He's buying a six pack of Mountain Dew, a box of granola bars and a bag of cookies.

"I'm uh," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "Kinda late."

The woman takes the money but doesn't try and hurry as she scans the items, and Castiel steps up behind him in line. He pretends he doesn't see, and so Castiel makes himself known, ducking low and smiling nice and friendly at him, nearly hooking his chin over the boy's shoulder. "Hi."

"Hi," he says through a grimace, physically backing up to put some space between the two of them.

"Braces," he says, stepping back in line and pointing to his teeth. You can't see them, but you can hear the slight lisp in his voice that hadn't been there before he got them. "Getting a few things straightened out."

He nods his blond head a couple times so Castiel knows he was listening, but he doesn't turn around, just stays facing forward and tapping his fingers against the counter.

"Hey you know, I- uh, I was kinda wondering if, um, sometime, you might possibly be inter-"

"I don't need a bag," the boy says quickly, taking his things off the counter and all but running away from Castiel, ignoring his words completely.

He just shrugs to himself and places his items on the counter.

Salt, butter and napkins.

~~~~~

The -arthritic- sheriff hadn't been wanting to do this, but he's left with not much of an option. So that same day, he drives all the way down to Castiel Novak's creepy little murder cabin for a chat. The drive there had been beautiful, the changing seasons have the leaves all turning orange and brown and the water looked gorgeous. He just wishes he wasn't going to visit the town murderer.

Standing on the porch, the front door is ajar, and so he calls into the house, "Mister Novak?"

After no answer, he sighs, "your front door is open, I'm coming in."

Having a look around the place, it isn't really what he was expecting. It's so tidy, everything right in it's place. There's even one of those weight lifting machines in the front room. He makes his way into the kitchen, where he can hear and smell something cooking, and after having a look, he sees that Castiel is boiling corn on the cob. And that there is corn covering most of the counter space, the greens of it all in the sink where he had pealed the cobs out. It's honestly an alarming amount of corn, for just one single human being.

"Mister Novak?" He calls, turning out of the kitchen. "Castiel Novak?"

That finally gets the attention of Castiel, who is upstairs in his office, typing away on his laptop, writer's block long forgotten.

"Oh, hi sheriff," he waves, smiling down at him. "I didn't hear you, come on up."

Once he's at the top of the stairs, he notices more corn. Like, two whole plates of corn, sitting next to Cas.

"I'm glad you're here, I could use the break. I've been working through lunch and I'm on a roll."

"Yeah," is all he says. "Listen, you and I both know what you did."

"Oh," Castiel nods, shrugging.

"Maybe we don't have enough to put you away right now, but eventually, we'll find those bodies. We'll tie you to them. And you're going away." Castiel has bowed his head, playing with the prongs that you stick into the ends of corn so you don't burn your fingers. "In the meantime I'd appreciate it if you didn't come into town anymore. Makes people uncomfortable."

Castiel looks up at the sheriff through his eyelashes and sighs.

"You can do your shopping elsewhere."

Castiel doesn't reply right away, but instead sticks the prongs into the ends of his corn and the sheriff asks, "did you hear me?"

"Sure, no problem," he replies, and the sheriff turns to leave, but Castiel starts speaking once more. "You know, the only thing that matters, is the ending," Cas tells him, leaning back in his chair. "It's the most important part of the story; the ending. And this one," he smiles, pointing to his laptop. "It's very good." He looks back to the sheriff and grins, "this one's perfect."

The sheriff nods, clearly unnerved by Castiel's stare and the words paired with it, and takes his leave. Castiel smiles to himself and puts his headphones back on.

Oh, how he had wanted to tell the sheriff he was wrong; so, so wrong. He knew he couldn't do that, though, because that'd be stupid. No one will find the bodies, ever. Dean Shooter had given him the perfect place for them. No one would ever think Castiel would bury a body where he had written about burying a body, because no one thinks that anyone is that stupid. And it isn't like Castiel is a very well known writer, so no one would think to look at his stories and try and connect the dots.

No one would look in the garden, where he now has corn growing. Abigail and Ted, they're great fertilizer, he supposes with a chuckle, momentarily distractedly looking out that same secret window, onto his secret garden. Which, the secret part has taken on a whole new meaning now. Castiel sighs, cracks his jaw and his knuckles and then gets right back to work on that ending.

_"I know I can do it," Todd Downy said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone. And her death, will be a mystery. Even to me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay, this might be a kind of long note, so apologies for that but here we go. This was based off the movie Secret Window, which I watched for the millionth time a few months ago and thought it'd be super cool to not write a traditional Cas-needs-Dean-in-a-healthy-way type of fic, and I love the movie, so. I recommend watching it, it's about a million times better than this fic and it's got Johnny Deep in it, so yeah.
> 
> If you'd like to watch it online here's a link for that: http://www.tubeplus.me/movie/468967/Secret_Window/
> 
> It's the one I used for reference, so I know it works fine. All credit goes to the amazing Stephen King for writing the original book and movie that gave me the inspiration to turn it into this little fanfic. No copyright intended, I just really wanted to write this in a Dean / Cas way so I hope you enjoyed. Also know that this fic is not as good as the book or movie, just something I thought would be fun so yeah, enough rambling!


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